


Spark

by thelightofmorning



Series: Burn the Dragonfires Once More [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Aurelia is low-key shipping them, Bjarni is a little shit, Callaina wishes people would stop trying to eat her goats, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Child Neglect, Class Issues, Corpse Desecration, Crimes & Criminals, Egil wants to hit something, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Irkand just wants a drink, Marius is the disaster gay, Martin is the disaster bi running around unsupervised, Misogyny, Multi, Nine Divines, Religious Conflict, Rustem needs adult supervision, Seriously the goats are not dinner they are like worth more than Sigdrifa, Sex Work, Sigdrifa leave the goats alone I mean it, Sigdrifa might be half decent LOL, The Thalmor Suck, Ulfric isn't sure if he's in Sovngarde or hell, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2019-10-18 06:00:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 37
Words: 51,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17575178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Martin Septim gave his life to save Nirn from the forces of Oblivion.Now he has to stop his big brother Alduin.While pretending that he's the bastard of his own grandson.During a civil war.Everything is on fire and he's just fine. Really.





	1. Helgen

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, imprisonment, misogyny, alcohol use, classism, criminal acts, religious conflict, corpse desecration, emotional trauma, child neglect, child abuse and mentions of genocide, rape/non-con, sex work, cannibalism, torture, child abandonment and child death.

 

“Hey you, you’re finally awake.”

            Martin reluctantly cracked one eye open to see a blurry pink face crowned by long golden hair. His head pounded like a Bosmer war-drum and his mouth tasted like Argonian bloodwine. Behind the face was a wash of grey stone, green vegetation and a cold blue sky. The wagon he was on swayed in time to the beat of his heart and head. When he lifted his hands to wipe his eyes, he discovered they were bound at the wrists.

            “Where…?” he groaned.

            “They captured you at Darkwater Crossing in the carnificina,” the blond Nord said with a sigh. “Judging by the terrain, I’d say we’re near Helgen, the biggest Legion-held town in the south.”

            “Carnificina…?” The word meant ‘slaughter’ or ‘massacre’ in Old Colovian.

            “One of the Legion’s more charming tactics to suppress ‘rebellion’ in the provinces,” answered another Nord, this one dark-haired and deep-voiced. “They pick a town, set up a ten-mile perimeter around it, and round up anyone who’s considered a rebel or a stranger for execution.”

            Martin blinked rapidly until the bleariness was gone. The blond was a classically handsome man with chiselled features, a neat golden beard and long braided hair while the dark-haired one was bigger, more rugged and still young. Another Nord, this one the wheat-blond version of the dark-haired one, sat on the same bench as Martin. Remarkably, he was gagged, and green eyes like broken wine bottles glared at the Legion soldier driving the wagon.

            The blond followed his gaze to the gagged man. “Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and the true High King of Skyrim,” he said gravely. “I am Ralof Storm-Hammer, his hearth-man, and the dark-haired one is Bjarni Ulfricsson, his eldest son.”

            “They gag my father, Cyrod, because he has the power of the Thu’um,” Bjarni rumbled grimly. “Your Empire fears the old magics of the Nords and the true power of Talos. Aren’t you pleased to give your life for such a worthy cause?”

            Martin chose his words carefully. He remembered little beyond smashing a certain red diamond amulet on a certain brazier and anguished green eyes before losing all sense of his self. “I am Brother Martin Northstar of the Order of the Hourglass,” he rasped. “It isn’t _my_ Empire. It never was.”

            He didn’t live long enough to claim it.

            “I told you those eyes were a Nord’s,” Ralof said, nudging Bjarni in the ribs with his left elbow.

            “My grandfather was the Nord. My wife was too.” Aurelia should have been his wife, no matter what Jauffre and the Elder Council said.

            Bjarni sighed heavily. “I apologise, Brother Martin. It’s easy to blame all the Cyrods for the sins of the Empire when it was just one cowardly man who signed away the divinity of Talos.”

            _They did WHAT?_ Martin dearly wanted to ask questions but… how could he convince three bound rebels apparently riding to their execution to tell him what happened over the past however many years. He recognised the short-hafted axe amulet worn by Nords who worshipped the Hero-God around Ralof and Ulfric’s necks; they revered Him as one of their own in the north.

            “Talos is a god,” he said quietly. “And any man who says otherwise commits heresy and blasphemy.”

            “Shut up back there!” yelled the Legion wagon-driver.

            “Or what, you’ll execute us?” Bjarni asked scornfully.

            “Well, Brother Martin, walk to the headsman’s bride with your head held high and you’ll be drinking in Sovngarde with the rest of us,” Ralof told him with a faint smile. “I don’t know what brought you over the border, but welcome, kinsman.”

            “High Hrothgar,” Martin said. “I was meant to go to High Hrothgar.”

            Wherever that was.

            Ulfric sighed and Bjarni glanced soberly at his father. “My father is a Tongue who trained with the Greybeards,” he said with a sigh of his own. “I went up there once. You can see all of Skyrim from the Throat of the World.”

            That explained the gag. “I have heard of the Thu’um,” Martin murmured. “I even know some of the Dovahzul, the Dragonish speech.”

            “I know some of it too,” Bjarni said with a sudden grin. His next phrase was pithily obscene, making a suggestion on where Emperor Titus Mede II could file the White-Gold Concordat sideways. Martin could only hope that no one would want to read it afterwards.

            “My, ah, education in Dovahzul wasn’t _that_ comprehensive,” was all Martin could say after hearing that.

            “What did you just say?” demanded the Legionnaire, a soft-voiced, plain-faced Nord with short brown hair, who rode behind the wagon.

            “I just said that Titus Mede should take the White-Gold Concordat and shove it up his arse sideways,” Bjarni replied pleasantly.

            “I see you learned your manners from Ralof,” sneered the Legionnaire.

            “Oh no, that one’s all his own,” Ralof said with a grin. “I was going to ask how you were doing away from Solitude and its comforts, Hadvar.”

            “I look forward to seeing your head roll, you damned traitor,” Hadvar said flatly.

            “How is it that a Nord soldier of the Legions is comfortable with a treaty that denies the divinity of the patron god of the Legions?” Martin asked quietly.

            “The other choice was annihilation at the hands of the Aldmeri Dominion,” Hadvar told him grimly. “I’d think a Priest of Akatosh would understand.”

            “It was Akatosh who raised Talos to divinity,” Martin said mildly. “I have handled divine relics of Talos. His divinity is plain. For the Empire to bow to the whim of an outside power and deny it is nothing short of cowardice. Titus Mede is unworthy of his throne and may Akatosh send a righteous man to bring him down.”

            “And they told me the Thalmor had stamped out all the good god-fearing Imperials in Cyrodiil,” Ralof remarked as Hadvar’s face darkened. “Pity the last one will be dying with us today.”

            Hadvar kneed his horse and drove the beast into a short gallop past the wagon. Martin had obviously touched a sore point.

            “To be fair, the Aldmeri Dominion devastated Cyrodiil during the Great War,” Bjarni admitted with a heavy sigh. “Three out of every five Cyrods died, they say, and the casualty rate among the Nord warriors who relieved the Emperor at the Red Ring wasn’t much better. But we won at Red Ring! If we’d relieved the Redguards at Elinhir, we could have brought the ‘sick Legionnaires’ and the Alik’r warriors to drive the Thalmor back into the sea. But no, Mede signed away our god and most of southern Hammerfell, and he wonders why the two races who produce the greatest warriors of Tamriel hate his guts and rebel.”

            “As I recall, half the Legions were Nord and another quarter Redguard,” Martin observed. “What is holding the Empire together?”

            “There are those who are loyal, right or wrong,” Ralof said with a sigh. “General Tullius will be sadly mistaken if he thinks executing Ulfric and Bjarni will end the rebellion. Sigdrifa and Egil are just as dedicated and probably better at planning wars than us three.”

            Bjarni nodded in agreement as Ulfric gave an affirmative grunt. “Mother’s worse. She’s a Shieldmaiden of Talos and-“

            “And a Shieldmaiden may use any weapon to hand or mind,” Martin finished. “If I wasn’t being hauled to an unjust execution, I’d almost feel sorry for this General Tullius.”

            They came into a sturdy village that was built up around a classic Imperial round keep of the early Septim Empire. “The executioner’s ready, General Tullius!” reported a Nibenese woman with the sturdy build of a Redguard.

            “Good,” growled a stocky Colovian in gilded armour as he nudged a magnificent blood bay to ride up to three Altmer, one dressed in elaborate gold-trimmed black robes.

            “Elenwen,” Ralof growled. “I should have known the Thalmor would be wrapped up in this.”

            “I hope she buys you dinner first!” Bjarni taunted as the wagon went past.

            “Give him to me,” Elenwen said in a flat haughty voice.

            “No. The little bastard’s head will roll soon enough,” Tullius rasped.

            “He implied sexual relations between myself and a human!”

            “You needn’t worry, Madam Ambassador. I wouldn’t touch you in a million years.”

            _So Tullius is not pleased with his orders,_ Martin mused.

            “Hey Vilod, can I get some of your mead with juniper berries?” yelled Ralof to a pale-haired Nord in rough leathers. “I don’t think I can get it in Sovngarde.”

            “Sorry, Ralof. We’ve got to execute you by sundown or the Thalmor can rightfully claim you,” was Vilod’s answer. “My mead’s good, but it isn’t worth a night of Elenwen’s pleasure.”

            “Before they made her Ambassador, she liked to torture Talos worshippers,” Bjarni said in a low voice. “She and her husband Nurancar led the purge of Cloud Ruler Temple.”

            Martin’s fists clenched. It had never occurred to him that with a ban on Talos worship, the Blades would be targeted. It made hideous sense, of course, but… “I had friends there,” he said tightly.

            “I’m sorry.” Bjarni looked over his shoulder at Elenwen. “My mother was at Cloud Ruler when it fell. She and my father barely escaped with precious Talosian relics.”

            Martin barely listened to him, instead staring at the leather thongs that bound his wrists. It was hard to cast without a free hand, but not impossible, and he’d been an Evoker of the Mages’ Guild in his time. Slowly, smoke began to curl from the thongs as they shrivelled and darkened under heat.

            “Keep their attention for five minutes,” he said under his breath. “I need a hand free to summon an Atronach but it’s going to take a while to burn through this rawhide.”

            Ralof’s eyes widened but Bjarni nodded. He then proceeded to sing a song about a lonely young Legionnaire’s widow who prayed to Talos for a child and a husband, the Divine sending her a virile young Blade to take care of both problems. The song was… earthy. Perhaps even bawdy. Ralinde would have fainted. Aurelia would have laughed. Marius would have asked if the Blade had a brother who liked men.

            The other Stormcloaks took up the refrain and soon the entire courtyard was filled with song. Elenwen sneered, turned her horse and rode away with her guards at her back. Tullius’ mouth twitched as he dismounted from his blood bay gelding.

            The thongs were almost burned through now. One good tug should free his hands for spellcasting. “Wait until we’re off the wagon,” Ralof advised in a soft voice. “We can run for the gates then.”

            Martin nodded.

            One by one, they were called, disembarking from the wagon to stand in orderly lines. “Empire loves their damned lists,” Ralof muttered.

            “Tribune, this one’s not on the list,” Hadvar, who was reading out the names for execution, said to the Niben-woman. “He’s a Stormcloak supporter alright, but we don’t have a name for him.”

            “My name is Brother Martin Northstar of the Order of the Hourglass,” Martin said clearly. “It saddens me when a group of Nord rebels are truer to the spirit of the Empire than its own Legions.”

            “If it wasn’t for the White-Gold Concordat, you wouldn’t be alive to say that,” the Tribune said contemptuously. “Send the renegade to the block.”

            “By your order, ma’am.”

            “I must respectfully decline your invitation,” Martin said as he broke his weakened bonds. Before anyone could react, a pair of Flame Atronachs appeared between the block and the archers. Of course, everyone focused on them, which allowed him to Telekinetically pull Ulfric’s gag off. Predictably, the Jarl of Windhelm wasted no time in Shouting the nearest Legionnaires – Hadvar and the Tribune – clear off their feet.

            “BEX!” Martin roared, opening every door and binding in the courtyard. He remembered the hours of internalising that Word, the first in a Shout that had proven pivotal at the Battle of Bruma.

            The Stormcloaks might have carried the day… Except something black and ominous landed on the tower and Shouted.

            “Zeymahi nol Bormahu,” it said, eyes burning red as it tracked Martin’s movements. “Hi fen dir daar sul.”

            Martin was transfixed with horror. He might have died if Bjarni hadn’t crash-tackled him away from the sudden jet of flame.

            “We need to get into the Keep!” yelled Bjarni. “That thing wants you dead!”

            “I gathered that!” Martin retorted.

            They ran and just beat the next jet of flame by entering the ruined tower. A Stormcloak ran up the stairs, only to be slammed into the stone wall as the dragon smashed its snout through a window. “Hi nis vonun,” it taunted.

            “Hin monah lost aan Siigonis arhk hin Bormah naak lirre!” Bjarni retorted.

            “…That was very close to blasphemy,” Martin remarked as the dragon pulled its head from the hole. “You do know Akatosh is the Father of Dragons?”

            “It worked, didn’t it?”

            They leapt from the tower into the burning inn, Martin casting Frostbite to clear a path in the flames. Past the inn was Hadvar, using his shield to protect a cowering civilian from the dragon while calling a frightened child to him. “Go, little cub,” said the boy’s father, who sat in a pool of his own guts.

            “Thorolf!” Hadvar called as the dragon swooped by to murder the poor man with fire.

            “I’ll take Haming from here,” promised the old civilian. “Gods guide you, Hadvar.”

            “Still alive?” Hadvar asked flatly as Bjarni and Martin came close.

            “No thanks to that thing up there,” Bjarni grated. “How about we make a temporary truce until we’re safe from it?”

            “Fine,” Hadvar said flatly. “Maybe your renegade priest friend can make himself useful.”

            They reached the village square before the main Keep. “Into the Keep, soldier!” Tullius ordered as his men helped civilians to their feet and tried to fight off the dragon. Maybe the Legion Martin remembered wasn’t quite dead. “All of you, into the bloody Keep!”

            The dragon swept down and flamed two more people just as Martin made the door with Bjarni. Inside, Ralof and Ulfric were closing the eyes of a half-charred Stormcloak.

            “You made it,” Ulfric said in a deep resonant baritone that echoed with the sound of thunder. “When you said you knew something of the dragons, Brother Martin, you neglected to tell us you were a Tongue.”

            “I know exactly one Shout that was made for a certain purpose,” Martin said softly. “I was sent to High Hrothgar to learn more. For what purpose, I’m not sure.”

            “My brother from our Father,” Bjarni said. “That’s what the dragon said, Da.”

            “And he was definitely trying to kill you,” Ralof observed.

            “We can speculate later. We need to escape first.” Ulfric sighed gustily. “I pray the Legion won’t try to stop us.”

            “If Hadvar survived, he might talk some sense into them,” Ralof drawled. “I doubt it though.”

            Sadly, the Legion was fighting with escaping Stormcloaks, even in a gruesome torture chamber that had the freshly dead corpse of a young man in what looked like mage robes in a cage. “Let me get those robes,” Martin said after the torturer was killed by Ulfric’s Shout. “I will be of more use if they’re enchanted properly.”

            The tunic, yoked hood and pants were different to the flowing Nibenese robes Martin remembered from his years in the Guild, but sturdy enough, and only needed to be rolled up a few times and tied off with twine at ankles and wrists. “Better,” he said, discarding his rags.

            Ulfric nodded. “Grab a sword. Magic’s no use in tight quarters.”

            They won free of the Keep and emerged under a reddening sky, the dragon bellowing as it flew to the northwest. “It’s gone for now,” Ralof said.

            “Agreed.” Ulfric sighed heavily. “We must split up. Ralof, Bjarni, go to the Whiterun camp and tell them of what’s happened. Brother Martin, you need not come with me, but the Stormcloak camp in Falkreath is close to a pass which will take you to the village nearest High Hrothgar. I know the route well.”

            The need to go to High Hrothgar drummed in his veins. “I will come with you. I… think it’s a direct order, if you will, from Akatosh that I go to this High Hrothgar post-haste.”

            He clasped arms with Bjarni and Ralof. “Gods with you both.”

            They walked past the smoking ruins of Helgen, sticking to the undergrowth, and found their way to a camp hidden among the pine trees. They were mostly made of patchwork leather and fur, cleverly mottled to blend in with the tree bark, and the soldiers were all wearing the grey-blue tabard that Martin supposed was the Stormcloaks’ uniform. “Ulfric!” blurted the commander, who wore dark bearskins hung with bone and ivory totems. “We saw you captured, thought to mount a rescue, but-“

            “Fifteen hunters against twenty Legionnaires is a poor choice,” said a woman in the totemic carved armour Martin remembered Sidgara wearing, though this one had a bear theme instead of the deer theme of his friend’s set. Otherwise, she was clearly related to or descended from the Shieldmaiden, though carved on harsher lines and with colder blue-green eyes.

            “Your love and affection are proverbial,” Ulfric said dryly. “Why aren’t you in Windhelm, Sigdrifa?”

            “Siddgeir’s driving the Hold into bankruptcy and I thought Egil could take advantage of the unrest to challenge him for the Stag Throne,” Sigdrifa answered serenely. “I didn’t know about your capture until this morning, Ulfric. By then, I thought, it was far too late.”

            “We live only because of Brother Martin and a dragon,” Ulfric said, settling down on a tree-stump spread with a bearskin. “I sent Ralof and Bjarni to the Whiterun camp.”

            “Brother Martin?” Sigdrifa asked, arching black eyebrow rising.

            “Brother Martin Northstar of the Order of the Hourglass,” he said with a slight bow. “I am under divine command to go to High Hrothgar.”

            “He’s a Tongue that the dragon tried very hard to kill,” Ulfric said, rubbing the back of his neck. “One the dragon greeted as ‘brother from our Father’. Isn’t that… interesting?”

            “A Tongue who could be the spitting image of Martin Septim wandering around in the Jeralls, using the honour-name of the Hero of Kvatch,” Sigdrifa said sardonically. “’Interesting’ doesn’t begin to describe it, Ulfric.”

            “Well, unless Talos and Akatosh have returned Martin Septim from the dead to save us all from the dragons, those rumours about there being a hidden Septim bloodline are obviously true,” said the camp commander. “Talos knows that the Aurelii made the claim during their rebellion and while he’s more Cyrod-looking than they were, he’s got the same colour eyes as that Redguard bastard Rustem. I saw them when he butchered Balgeir like a bunny.”

            “If I were to be named in the Colovian style, it would be Martin Aurelius,” Martin said cautiously, silently blessing the Stormcloak for giving him enough information to construct a plausible story. “I took the name Northstar to honour Aurelia, the Hero of Kvatch.”

            “And to hide from the Thalmor, no doubt,” Ulfric observed quietly. “How old are you?”

            “Thirty-eight,” Martin admitted slowly.

            “It would be like Arius to have a bastard in hiding,” Sigdrifa said sourly. “He fancied himself Martin come again.”

            “He was mad,” Ulfric said bluntly. The Jarl glanced at Martin and shrugged. “I apologise, but he was. The blood of the Madgoddess manifested very strongly in Arius and his sons.”

            “I know that,” Sigdrifa said bitterly. “I was married to Rustem, remember?”

            Martin glanced between them. “I apologise if my presence is a problem. For obvious reasons, my ancestry isn’t something publicly discussed.”

            “If you’re a Septim, you’re the bloodline of Talos,” Ulfric said quietly. “We have a sword in Windhelm, the Sword of the Septims. Draw that and all will know your bloodline.”

            “To be honest, the only reason to do that would be to try and sway the Legion to my side,” Martin said quietly. “I get the feeling that the Empire isn’t beloved by Skyrim.”

            “They used us to win the Great War, then signed away our god and expected us to accept it with chests of gold,” Ulfric said bitterly. “Then we few who came home saw our homeland bled of coin and youth to pay the taxes of an Empire too impoverished and weak to stand on its own. Septim you may be, Brother Martin, but the time of Skyrim being part of the Empire is done for. Could you truly be a part of such as you saw today? I recall you were disgusted.”

            “I was and I am,” Martin said slowly. “Akatosh sent me here to go to this High Hrothgar and now a dragon wants to kill me. Saving the Empire is a very low priority on my list, Jarl Ulfric.”

            “Good.” Ulfric’s smile was grim. “I like you and I’d hate to have to kill you.”


	2. Ivarstead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, child abandonment and child abuse.

 

One of Ulfric’s scouts, a lanky ‘Rifter’ named Haldir, led Martin to Haemar’s Pass. “Follow the road and you’ll be in Ivarstead in no time,” the Stormcloak advised, chewing on a grass-stem. “The Vilemyr Inn’s cheap and clean, but don’t eat the goat’s cheese or you’ll be farting all the way up to High Hrothgar.”

            “I’ll keep that in mind,” Martin promised. Ulfric had given him a pair of sturdy knee-high boots made from rough goat’s hide turned inwards, a leather sack full of sour-tasting flatbread, venison jerky and crumbling goat’s cheese, and a plain steel sword to replace the Legion gladius from Helgen. “Any particular dangers on the road?”

            “Wolves, cave of bears on either side of Ivarstead, and maybe an ice wraith,” Haldir answered. “Might be an idea to conjure one of them atry-naks Jarl Ulfric says you can.”

            “Thank you,” Martin said. “I may do so if I encounter any danger.”

            Haldir looked up the pass, shading his gaze with his hand. “Better get going then, Brother Martin. Legion’ll be along soon enough what with these dragons and everything. Best get over to the Old Holds where they don’t dare go.”

            “Thank you,” Martin repeated with a nod of the head. He wished he knew more of Skyrim-born Nord ways. They were different to the Bruma and Cyrodiil Nords he’d known.

            Haemar’s Pass was in the foothills of the Jeralls, a stark place of white snow and grey stone interspersed with the blood-berried snowberries, which Haldir had told him were good to eat. Martin picked a handful from one bush and nibbled; they were sweet-sour with a coldly burning aftertaste. He passed by one hunter and an ominous cave before coming suddenly into what had to be the Rift.

            If Falkreath was a place of dark pine forests and stony hills, then the Rift was a glory of green-gold, red-gold and the pearl-white of birches and aspen. Martin followed the road until he found a crossroads with a sign that said Ivarstead and took that direction. After yesterday’s horror, he soaked in the serenity of this bright sunny day in a land fairer than Cyrodiil claimed it to be.

            He was coming up to a clearing in the birch forests when the pained cry of someone and the panicked bleating of several goats caught his attention. Martin gestured, conjuring up a Frost Atronach, and walked fast in the direction of the noise. Hopefully the Atronach would scare the bear away.

            Two dead goats lay in front of a cave mouth and a woman clad in a strange blanket-mantle of undyed wool stood before the rest of the herd, palms full of flame, as a big brown bear rose up. Her skin shone with crystalline refraction but the bloodstain on her mantle indicated the Flesh spell wasn’t helping much.

            Martin conjured another Frost Atronach between the goatherd and the bear, directing it to take the beast’s blows as his other Atronach lumbered around the terrified herd. The woman scrambled back, whistling shrilly, and two iron-grey streaks that were more wolf than dog flanked everyone to hamstring the bear from behind. She wisely left the bear to the Atronachs and dogs as she cast the blue-green glow of Calm over the panicky goats so that they didn’t run away.

            It was Martin’s Lightning Bolt that put the bear out of its misery. Gesturing to dismiss both of the Atronachs, Martin turned from the beast, inhaling the mingled scent of blood and honey. The dogs nosed at him briefly before running to their mistress for pats and reassurance.

            She patted them on the heads and then pulled back her mantle to reveal a nasty trio of slashes from the bear’s claws. Golden light and chimes shimmered briefly in the air as she healed the wound, only the ragged state of her undyed wool tunic testament to the injury.

            “Steadfast, Holdstrong, stay,” she ordered in a low pleasant voice.

            The dogs whined acknowledgement and she looked up at Martin. Even from this distance, he could see the blue-green of her eyes. There was something in the lines of her delicately square face that reminded him of Sidgara and something about her aquiline profile that made him think of Aurelia. “Thank you,” she said.

            “It was nothing,” Martin said with a shrug. “Where did that bear come from?”

            “Honeystrand Cave,” she said, gesturing to the cave-mouth. “Jarl’s soldiers were supposed to have cleared it because the bears have been attacking livestock and travellers when they’re not scratching up the trees and ruining the lumber.”

            “I’m sorry,” Martin said softly.

            “Don’t be. You look like an adept mage and… well, don’t let that bear fool you, I know how to take care of myself. Would you be willing to help me deal with the other two? I can cover a night at the inn and some mead if you do.”

            Martin nodded. “Will your goats be alright?”

            “Aye. No one would dare to steal them this close to Ivarstead, not with Steadfast and Holdstrong standing guard.” She gave a low wicked chuckle. “I hear the Thieves’ Guild in Riften still tells stories about the time their Day Master got chased halfway across Whiterun Hold by them, three sweet feed-loving goats and my ice spikes.”

            Martin found himself smiling. “Sounds like quite the story.”

            “It’s kept them off my back.” She gestured and produced a white-violet bow and quiver of ethereal arrows. “I think the other two are sleepy. If we can kill them with one shot, Temba will pay well for the three pelts.”

            They dropped into a crouch and snuck into the cave. As the goatherd predicted, the other two bears were sleeping, and she nocked an arrow, aimed and fired the Bound Bow. With little more than a grunt, one of the bears died with an arrow in the eye. The other grunted, stirred and opened its dark eyes – only to die in a similar manner.

            The goatherd banished the conjured weapons. “I lost my bow and arrows when the bear outside attacked my camp and goats,” she admitted with a sigh. “The nearest weaponsmith is in Riften and it’s too early in the season to travel there.”

            She rose to her feet and drew an ordinary steel knife. “Let me skin these bears and I’ll take you in to Ivarstead.”

            Martin found himself carrying a rank raw bear pelt as they, the dogs and the goats travelled to Ivarstead. It was a small snug lumber village located at the foot of the tallest mountain he’d ever seen, a worn path of steps cut into the rocky slope and disappearing around the curve of the mountain. High Hrothgar had to be on top of the… what did Bjarni call it… the Throat of the World.

            The goatherd followed his gaze. “The Throat of the World,” she said. “It’s said at the top of the mountain, Kyne breathed the Nords into the world and the Three Tongues later sent Alduin from it with the power of their Thu’um.”

            “Alduin?”

            “The World-Eater. The old tales say he is a big black dragon that will devour the world at the end of days and regurgitate it into a new form.”

            The dragon at Helgen had been big and black. The dragon that had tried so hard to kill him.

            “You Nords like your depressing stories,” he said with a forced smile.

            “The old tales say that a Dragonborn like Talos will come to defeat him,” the goatherd said cheerfully.

            “Dragonborn? I only know it in the sense of the Septim Emperors,” Martin said slowly.

            “Up here, the Dragonborn is a mortal with the soul of a dragon. It’s said they can Shout like a dragon without any training. I’ve seen the Word Walls myself, even learned a Word – Kaan. It calms down animals.”

            “Why didn’t you calm down the bear?” Martin asked curiously.

            “Because I’d already calmed down my goats before I realised the bear was there,” was her soft reply. “Maybe a Greybeard can Shout really quickly, but if I use Kaan as a Shout, I can’t speak for a few minutes.”

            “I apologise,” Martin said awkwardly.

            “You weren’t to know. The only real Tongue outside of the Greybeards is Ulfric and it would take a person braver than I to ask the ins and outs of the Thu’um.” She whistled, sending Steadfast and Holdstrong to drive the goats into a pen at the outskirts of the village near a mound. “I’m Korli, by the way.”

            “Martin,” he said.

            “Named for the last Septim, huh?”

            “Something like that.”

            Temba was a tanned, brown-haired woman with a sour expression who eyed their pelts with disdain. “I wanted ten,” she said flatly.

            “Then go to the cave across the bridge,” Korli retorted. “You didn’t say how many you wanted, only that you’d pay well for bear pelts.”

            Reluctantly, the homespun-clad woman dug into her belt-pouch and thrust a handful of gold at Korli, who counted out the coins. “Fifteen septims?” the goatherd asked in disbelief.

            “Take it or leave it,” Temba said. “That’s enough to get you and your friend drunk at the inn.”

            “Next time I’m down in Riften, I’ll tell everyone to go to Heartwood Mill for their lumber,” Korli said flatly. “So keep your bloody coin, Temba.”

            “Thirty!” the woman said quickly.

            “Per pelt,” Korli said implacably.

            Lips curling in a sneer, Temba counted out the rest of the coin into Korli’s palm. “There you go. I was going to buy some wool for a cloak from you, but I can’t afford it now.”

            “You couldn’t afford a cloak woven from my goat’s wool,” Korli answered serenely, handing half the coin to Martin. “There’s a reason why the Jarls pay top septim for it.”

            Temba glared and stalked off with her untanned pelts.

            “I’m surprised Gwilin hasn’t killed her and baked her into winter pies, honestly,” Korli said as she pocketed her own share. “Bloody tight-arsed Rifters.”

            “You’re not a Rifter?” Martin asked.

            “Kreathling, more or less,” was Korli’s answer. “I’ll take you to the inn. I promised to cover your room.”

            The Vilemyr Inn was clean and neat, albeit a little on the shabby side. The innkeeper Willem accepted twenty septims from Korli for a room, unlimited flagons of homebrewed mead and vegetable broth, and a loaf of day-old bread. There was a young woman in simple clothing playing a lute in the corner and a sour-faced Niben-man drinking in the other. “It’s fish and lumber here,” Korli explained as they took a seat at the single long table. “Good grazing in autumn and winter, so I winter here and spend summer in Whiterun.”

            “I’ve never seen goats like yours,” Martin said, sipping his mead. It was weaker than what Ulfric served at his camp, possibly even watered down.

            “Khajiiti ang’ora crossbred with Reacher goats for waterproofing in the first generation and the offspring crossbred with Rifter goats for toughness in the second generation,” Korli said. “Ang’ora is softer, Reacher wool can be used for tents, and Rifter wool is best for carpets, but my goats produce wool that is all of those things, if only a little worse than the originals.”

            “Your mantle…” Martin noted the fineness of the weave. “Who wove it?”

            “I did. Unless the buyer wants fleece for a specific purpose, I weave it myself during summer and winter while the goats graze.” Korli smiled crookedly. “Were you hoping to buy some?”

            “I couldn’t afford it,” Martin said with a rueful laugh.

            “When you’re Arch-Mage of the College, hit me up and I’ll make you a set of robes,” she said wryly. “I mean, that’s the only reason a Cyrod mage would be seen dead this side of the mountains, right?”

            “I may go there after High Hrothgar,” Martin admitted.

            “The Greybeards are touchy about who they let inside the monastery,” Korli said quietly.

            “I’ve made a study of Dovahzul,” Martin said. “Enough, like you, that I can use part of one Shout.”

            “A Cyrod Tongue?”

            “My grandfather was a Nord.”

            “Explains the eyes,” Korli finally said. “My grandfather was a Cyrod.”

            “Explains the nose,” Martin said with a grin.

            She snorted. “So, what Shout can you do?”

            “I know the Word for ‘open’,” he admitted. “When I Shout it, _everything_ opens.”

            “Interesting choice.” Korli shrugged. “Just don’t open the doors of High Hrothgar with a Shout or you might find yourself going back down the mountain right quick.”

            Martin smiled. “I will be a perfect visitor, I promise.”

…

Arngeir was meditating in the central chamber of High Hrothgar when the tall, almost grotesquely muscular woman in scant white leather armour stepped into the pool of light from the braziers. She was lantern-jawed with a severe under-bite, close-cropped black hair and olive-bronze skin, hands swollen and scarred from years of fighting. In the arenas and taverns of the south, she wouldn’t go unnoticed until one looked into her pale green eyes and saw the febrile glitter of a thwarted Empress. In Cyrodiil, they both revered and cursed her name.

            “Hello Julius,” she said in her low hoarse voice.

            He sighed. “That man is dead, Mother. What do you want?”

            “Thought I’d stop by to give you a heads up that Alduin’s back,” she said dryly.

            “What?” he yelped, driving her back several steps.

            “Alduin’s back. So’s your father.”

            “WHAT?”

            “He’s climbing up the mountain now.”

            “Alduin?”

            “No, Martin!”

            “How can my father return from the dead?”

            “The same way dragons do, I suppose.” Aurelia shrugged her broad shoulders. “Akatosh’s been playing coy with me because I’m a Daedric Prince. Talos, for all His flaws, is more forthcoming. I suppose a sudden reminder of mortality will do that to a Divine.”

            “This is insane!”

            “Why do you think _I’m_ involved?” the Madgoddess shot back. “The man I loved has come back from the dead and I can’t even be with him because, hello, I’m an aspect of Sheogorath!”

            Arngeir rose to his feet. “You made that choice.”

            “Did I?” Aurelia shrugged again. “ _You_ decided to piss off to a mountain top knowing full well that Arius had no business being the Grand Master. You put poor Marius in such deep cover he isn’t even sure who he is anymore. Your grandsons belong to Sithis and Nocturnal respectively, the Redguard gods told us to piss off when we asked to awaken Cirroc’s Dragonborn blood, and Kynareth tells me that Callaina isn’t meant for the Stormcrown! All because you decided to run away from your responsibilities as Grand Master.”

            “KOS NAHLOT!” Arngeir’s Voice echoed across the chamber, shaking the stone walls. “You know nothing, Madgoddess, beyond your grief and madness. Be gone from Kyne’s holy peak.”

            “Certainly. Martin’s fragile enough; he isn’t ready to see me.” Her eyes glittered strangely. “But be prepared, Julius, for your father isn’t what you want him to be.”

            One moment she was there, the next she was gone, and in the third someone opened the metal doors to High Hrothgar.

            He recognised Korli readily enough, the stamp of the Aurelii vying for that of the Kreathling Jarls in her sculpted features and aquiline profile. The man accompanying her was a few inches shorter, windswept brown hair falling to his shoulders and blue eyes burning like copper-fed flame even in the dim light. He was scruffier than the official portrait that hung in Cloud Ruler Temple, his mage robes ragged and stained. But it was undoubtedly Martin Septim.

            “Hello, Korli,” Arngeir greeted, forcing a smile. “How are the goats?”

            “Two got killed by a bear yesterday. Martin here gave me a hand with them,” she answered. “You and Wulfgar arguing again?”

            Arngeir managed a weak chuckle. “I was… expressing my frustration. Things are going to be interesting for the next few months.”

            “That sounds foreboding,” she observed. “Are you all converting to Sanguine worship and throwing a big party?”

            Martin flinched a little. “That’s not funny, Korli. Sanguine is a dark and terrible Prince.”

            “I have reason to believe that dragons may return soon,” Arngeir admitted.

            “They already have,” Martin said grimly. “I was at Helgen, caught up in the carnificina, when Alduin attacked the town.”

            “You said absolutely nothing of that yesterday!” Korli said sharply. “Even after I told you about the Throat of the World and that.”

            “Given the Imperial presence outside of Ivarstead, admitting to being a fugitive from Legion justice would be unwise,” Arngeir said quietly. “Korli… Martin is expected. I do not wish to be rude, but we must discuss matters meant for the Greybeards and the Greybeards alone.”

            “I’m as much a priestess of Kyne as you are a priest,” she pointed out.

            “I know. But your knowledge of the Thu’um is weak at best.” Arngeir softened the words with a smile. “I would be as useless in Eldergleam Sanctuary, Daughter of the Green. Go there and warn your brethren of the coming storm.”

            “Fine.” She turned and nodded to Martin. “I’d say have fun, but well, Arngeir’s good at sucking the joy out of life.”

            “Korli!”

            “It’s true. You sit up here living on denial and air to chase the power of long-dead creatures and hope for a Dragonborn to advise,” Korli said over her shoulder as she headed for the door. “What will you do when one comes, all thunder and lightning and storm you cannot tame?”

            “I will show them the truth of the Way of the Voice,” Arngeir told her.

            “Kyne help you if the Dragonborn’s for the way of the red in tooth and claw,” was her parting shot.

            Arngeir sighed as the door slammed behind her. “The goddess you know as Kynareth is more complex than the Imperials realise,” he explained. “I serve Her in Her aspect of Storm Goddess and the one Who gave men the Thu’um. Korli serves the Mother of Men and Beasts. Kynareth is the same goddess, but we worship very different aspects of Her.”

            “It was Akatosh who called me here,” Martin said.

            “I know… Martin Septim.” Arngeir bowed slightly to his father and humanity’s saviour. _“Dragonborn.”_


	3. High Hrothgar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, torture, imprisonment, child abuse, religious conflict and child neglect.

 

Arngeir was ancient, his sea-blue eyes glittering in an olive-bronze face cracked like drought-dry earth, and his hair fell long and frost-white from the grey hood of his robes. But there were echoes of Uriel Septim in his features and a nose like a raptor’s beak, a lantern jaw and underbite with prominent bottom canines. More to the point, there was _affinity_ that ran deeper than bone and blood. This man was a kinsman, grandson or great-grandson perhaps. Korli had explained that the Greybeards’ mastery of the Thu’um extended their lifespans much like a mage’s knowledge of Restoration and Alteration did on the way up the mountain. _“Or maybe they’re so isolated that Kyne forgets to breathe them in when their time comes,”_ she’d laughed.

            The Greybeards represented a monastic tradition that was older than even St Alessia’s rebellion against the Ayleids, the isolated life of the hermit on the mountaintop trying to grasp at an understanding of the Divine. The Wayshrines of Kynareth on the way up to High Hrothgar told the story of Paarthurnax and the Three Tongues and the Storm-Goddess’ gift of the Thu’um and its subsequent corruption. Martin had known a little about them from Sidgara’s stories and his own research, but nothing did justice to the reality. Everything related to earthly desires had been pared from Arngeir’s life and even his sonorous baritone was more like empty wind than man’s voice.

            “I know exactly one Shout,” Martin said in response to Arngeir’s statement. “One Word opens all things. Two and three Words open doors to Dagon’s Deadlands. That was how I summoned the Great Gate at Bruma.”

            “Kynareth have mercy. I didn’t think such a thing was possible.” Arngeir made a sign against evil. “It is said that Dragonborn can transcend the limitations of the Thu’um, for Dovahzul is their mother-tongue, but to see it in reality…”

            “Times were desperate,” Martin said softly.

            “And they will be again if the dragons have returned. Civil war led by a renegade down below, dragons in the sky above. It proves only the need for restraint and Speaking only in true need.” Arngeir gave him a frosty sidewise glance. “Do not let your exposure to the Blades and their philosophy corrupt you, Martin. They grabbed for power and used it no matter the consequences. Cloud Ruler Temple fell and the order was wiped out by vengeful elves because of it.”

            “I see.”

            “Do you?” Arngeir’s mouth tightened. “I and Master Wulfgar were once Tongues of the Blades. In time, we realised the futility of shedding blood with the Voice and retreated to High Hrothgar to commune with Kynareth.”

            “During the Oblivion Crisis, Shieldmaidens and Greybeards ventured into the world to shut the Gates and destroy the Daedra,” Martin pointed out. “If Alduin is destined to destroy the world, such intervention may be required again.”

            “The Shieldmaidens of Talos are dead but for two who mouth words of tradition to cover their own ambitions,” Arngeir said testily. “Ulfric profanes the Thu’um with blood and murder. Do you know he Shouted the High King to the ground and killed him with an axe, and calls it a fair duel? A boy who’d never held more than a butter knife stood up to Ulfric, gaze unflinching, and died for it because my former pupil thinks he’s a better leader than the Empire.”

            Martin winced inwardly. He’d guessed that ambition paid a part in Ulfric and Sigdrifa’s rebellion. But ambition wasn’t frowned on in the worship of Talos. “The Legion found me in the Jeralls and took me to Helgen to be executed as part of the carnificina,” he told Arngeir. “If I hadn’t broken free of my bonds and freed Ulfric’s tongue, neither of us would be alive.”

            “Already you justify your actions,” Arngeir said grimly. “I am not saying that self-defence isn’t permitted, particularly for the Dragonborn, but to use the Thu’um lightly is to blaspheme against Kynareth.”

            “So, Korli told me that a Dragonborn has the soul of a dragon and the life of a mortal,” Martin said, to distract Arngeir from his pontificating. He could see what the Greybeard was saying – but it was easy to say such things in the safety and isolation of High Hrothgar. “As a Dragonborn, I can learn Words like a dragon, she said.”

            “Yes and no,” Arngeir said. “You may read Dovahzul and understand its meaning, but to unlock the Words in a Shout, you will either need to be gifted the understanding of it or absorb the soul of a dragon you have slain. Otherwise, it takes weeks, months or even years to meditate on the meaning of a Word and internalise it.”

            “With Open Portal, I did it in days,” Martin said.”

            “Perhaps the Dragonborn has greater gifts in that regard than the mightiest of the Greybeards,” Arngeir conceded.

            “It can’t be that hard, surely. Korli said she knew a Word-“

            “KAAN. The ancient name for Kyne and the first Word in the Kyne’s Peace Shout, which reminds animals of the kinship between them and men as children of Kynareth.” Arngeir smiled thinly. “Korli’s connection to Kynareth is as innate and deep as yours to Akatosh, Martin. She might learn the first and maybe even the second Word of a Shout instinctively, but without the kind of unrelenting focus and meditation that a Greybeard uses, she will never gain mastery of even one. For what she does in the world, she has no need of the Thu’um.”

            Martin’s mouth quirked to the side. “She’s right. You do suck the joy out of life.”

            A hitherto-unseen Greybeard, lean and spare with a full beard, burst into laughter that made the entire building shake. He was joined by two others, all ancient and grey-bearded, mirth twinkling in their eyes. Perhaps Arngeir was the only one to, as Aurelia would put it, have a stick up his arse.

            “Wulfgar, Borri, Einar,” Arngeir said testily. “So kind of you to join me in greeting the Dragonborn.”

            Martin bowed slightly to them and they bowed back.

            So began Martin’s training in the Thu’um.

            Over the course of a week, he discovered Wulfgar was one of the survivors of Cloud Ruler Temple, a Tongue who had fled Arius’ regime in disgust and carried a frightened little girl on the Serpent’s Trail who would grow up to become Korli. Borri was from Winterhold, a former mage who learned the Thu’um by studying it and had to move to High Hrothgar lest his voice trigger _another_ collapse (Martin was afraid to ask if he’d been responsible for the first one). Einar was the youngest at sixty, a former Thief who’d come to High Hrothgar to rob the place and accidentally learned a Word instead. Arngeir was cagy about his ancestry and past, only claiming to be the oldest of the Greybeards, and the one to realise the hypocrisy of the Blades.

            By the end of his teaching, learning the first two Words of Unrelenting Force and the first one of Whirlwind Sprint, Martin was happy to be given the job of retrieving the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller from a tomb called Ustengrav in somewhere called Hjaalmarch. The monastery was claustrophobic and Arngeir’s sermons verging on carping. He made his farewells and left High Hrothgar just before dawn on a fine late summer’s day.

            By the time he got to Ivarstead, he saw Korli and a couple other workers shearing her precious goats. Fleeces of brown, grey, white and black were rolled and piled neatly behind a cottage, each one bound with a coloured cord, and the shorn goats had their muzzles in a trough full of feed. “You were right about Arngeir,” he told the goatherd with a smile.

            “Of course I was,” was her dry reply. She finished clipping the last bit of fleece from a grey goat and released him to go eat with the others. “I grew up with them.”

            “Wulfgar said something about that.” Martin leaned on the fence and watched her, the sour-faced Niben-man and a lithe male Bosmer work. “The Way of the Voice is a lovely philosophy, and I can see how it came about, but I find myself understanding why you and Ulfric disagree with it.”

            “It’s got its place in the scheme of things,” Korli said as she rolled up the fleece and tied it with a dark green cord. Martin could see differing shades of blue and green, a pale grey, a wheat-yellow, a dull red, dark purple, and even indigo.

            “Do those colours mean something?” he asked curiously, nodding to the baled fleeces.

            “They’re Hold colours,” she explained. “Nine Holds, nine colours.”

            “Ah.” From the looks of it, the bales tied with red, yellow and grey-blue made up most of the batch. Only three were tied with grey, pale green or pale-blue. Indigo, dark green and pale blue were two to four bundles. A roll of brown fleece, a heathered grey and one of cream were set aside, tied with undyed cord. “Isn’t it a bit early to be shearing them now?”

            “Not if I want my goats to survive the winter,” Korli said. “I do an early spring shear and a late summer one, so they have wool on them in the cold. Even in the Rift, it gets cold enough.”

            “You’re obsessed with those goats,” remarked the Bosmer.

            “You’re not complaining about the mantle I wove you last winter,” Korli retorted.

            “I’m just saying that I’ve seen mothers care for their children less than you do for the goats,” he said wryly.

            “My goats are better behaved than most children.” Korli rolled and tied the last of the fleeces.

            “Or Bassianus,” quipped the Bosmer, eyeing the Niben-man. Martin realised that despite his colouring and complexion, the man might just be a Nord or part-Nord with his height and build.

            “Shut up, Gwilin,” sneered Bassianus.

            “Here’s your pay.” Korli tossed them each a generous pouch of coin. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

            “Maybe now Fastred will listen to me and move to Riften with me,” Bassianus mused as he counted out the coins.

            “Don’t let Klimmek hear you saying that or he’ll knock you into the river again,” Gwilin observed. “Or Jofthor will kill you for daring to take away his beloved daughter.”

            “It wouldn’t be a small village without a love triangle,” Korli said dryly.

            Bassianus stalked away and Gwilin smirked. “He’ll lose that money if he goes to Riften. I hear there’s a silver-tongued prince of thieves who can sell snow to a Paler.”

            “Brynjolf? He can’t even steal a goat,” Korli said with a grin.

            “Only because your goats are probably Daedra in disguise – or so I’ve heard,” Gwilin said, waving. “Enjoy your trip to Riften with the goats.”

            “I will. They’re better conversationalists than you,” Korli told him, earning a laugh from the departing Bosmer.

            “You have a good life here,” Martin observed quietly.

            “It’s a life. Better than some, worse than others. Just a strand in the weave of the gods’ design.” Korli stacked the rolls of fleece in neater piles. “I know you’re the Dragonborn. I haven’t seen old Arngeir ready to hustle me out so quickly in years, as if he thinks I’m too daft to see what I saw.”

            “He said that you have a deep and innate connection with Kynareth,” Martin said.

            “She has Her hand over me,” Korli agreed. “Sometimes that means I go fix things or a guide a person or even tend a tree.”

            She went over to her satchel and pulled out a rolled-up map. When she came over and opened it, Martin realised that there were notations written in Dovahzul and Akaviri noting locations of dragon-mounds and Word Walls. Two of them were right near Ivarstead.

            “Arngeir will dole out knowledge like broth to a beggar at a Temple charity,” she said, handing him the map. “That’s his way and I know why he’s like that. The last Dragonborn they acknowledged was Talos, and that megalomaniacal arsehole conquered Tamriel and lay the foundation for the Great War after humiliating the Altmer.”

            Martin looked at Korli again and saw past the plain woollen garments, weathered complexion and too-old turquoise eyes. “You’re a Blade.”

            “I took oath, aye,” she said softly. “Someone had to keep the old dragonlore alive and after Esbern took sick last winter, I was the last.”

            “But you’re sworn to Kynareth,” he said.

            “I didn’t realise I had to be a worshipper of Talos to preserve the old things of yore,” she said sardonically. “I’ve taken oath, but that doesn’t mean I’m here to be your servant, Martin. Talos and the Dragonguard corrupted each other – give a greedy dragon a group of masterless Akaviri to command and give a group of masterless Akaviri a greedy dragon to follow and you have a recipe for disaster.”

            She tapped the dragon-map in his hand. “For every dragon soul you absorb, every dragon-word you learn, and every life you take with the Thu’um, help someone or something. Don’t hunt or consume more than you need. Take care of the green things and the wild things, for they are Kyne’s as much as men. You have a dragon’s soul, Martin, but it doesn’t mean you have to be an arsehole about it.”

            “Is that from you or Kynareth?” Martin asked.

            Korli shrugged. “I don’t know. I just know I’ve spent a long time thinking about what I’d tell the Dragonborn if I ever met them. My family history is a long line of what a Dragonborn shouldn’t do.”

            “I don’t understand,” Martin said softly.

            “A man who’s the spitting image of Martin Septim says that,” Korli said softly. “I know an Aurelii when I see one. If you want to understand, learn our family history. Go to Riften if you want to understand more straight from the Nightingale’s mouth.”

            With those words, she hefted the rolls of fleece tied with undyed cord and went to the small cottage that was surely hers, leaving Martin more confused than ever.


	4. Riften

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, religious conflict, torture and genocide. I know that quest rewards involving coin are level-based, but I don’t see lots of coin in a village like Shor’s Stone, so I’m playing around with that.

 

“Running a little light in the pockets, lad?”

            Even Sanguine didn’t have the kind of playful, roguish temptation that the owner of this lilting brogue, deeper and richer than that of the West Weald, possessed. Martin wiped sweating palms down his filthy robes and glanced sideways at the auburn-haired man who spoke. Lithe in a way few Nords managed, his green eyes sparkled and the scar that ran down the side of his face lent a rakish look to his handsome features. Just before Martin approached, he’d been selling ‘Falmerblood Elixir’, coaxing well-dressed peasants into buying bottles of the brew.

            Martin _was_ low on coin, though high on eminently sellable goods. He apologised profusely to the spirits of the Nords whose tombs he’d desecrated while learning new Words on the way down from Ivarstead, but survival necessitated taking some of the better grave goods. He needed better mage robes and more supplies as well as the cost of a carriage to somewhere called Morthal, which was near Ustengrav. Korli had given him a scrap of paper detailing the common prices of what he’d need in Riften. _“Gems, enchanted goods and jewellery always sell well,”_ she observed. _“Unless it’s a rare metal, ores and ingots aren’t worth carrying unless you’re due to stop in a village on the way. Shor’s Stone has a blacksmith and you’re likely to run into a Khajiit caravan along the way.”_

Shor’s Stone indeed had a blacksmith and a spider problem in its iron mine. Filnjar the blacksmith was able to pay Martin for clearing out the mine with an Orcish sword that he honed to razor-sharpness for free. Sadly, the man could only buy the Stormcloaks’ steel sword and two handfuls of silver ore. From what Korli said, the coin covered a pallet at the Bee and Barb and maybe enough for a cup of weak ale and some vegetable broth. So yes, Martin was low on coin.

            “I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Martin said, reminding himself that this man was most likely a snake-oil salesman and probably a Thief.

            “On the contrary, lad, wealth _is_ my business,” the auburn-haired man continued with a smile. “If you’re interested in a taste, Brynjolf is your man. It will be as easy-“

            “As stealing a goat?” Martin asked dryly.

            Much to his surprise, Brynjolf laughed. “Those are not goats. Those are Daedra in disguise. And I’m pretty sure the dogs are really Avatars of Hircine.”

            “Yes, because how else could the Prince of Thieves fail in his mission,” Martin said.

            “Precisely.” Brynjolf’s eyes twinkled. “How _is_ Korli? I heard the Legion did some rounding up of Stormcloaks up near Ivarstead and I was hoping she wasn’t caught in it.”

            “She’s alive. Lost a couple goats to a bear.” Martin smoothed down his robes again. “She sent me to speak to Irkand about… family history.”

            Brynjolf’s eyebrow rose. “Did she now? I see the resemblance between you three, but I thought all the Aurelii had been accounted for.”

            “I… took vows.” It wasn’t a lie. “Martin Northstar of the Order of the Hourglass.”

            Brynjolf’s other eyebrow rose. “A priest. Looking to speak to one of the best Thieves in the Guild. Sent by a woman who’s surely an Agent of Kynareth. I suppose you’re going to tell me the rumours of dragons returning are true.”

            “They are.” Martin palmed a medium-sized uncut, unpolished sapphire into his hand and offered it. “I need safe passage to wherever he is. Irkand was a Blade and… well…”

            Brynjolf’s mouth tightened. “I don’t suppose you’d care to do a favour for me instead?”

            “I don’t think Akatosh would be pleased if I stole, no matter how dire the need,” Martin said softly. “I’m not judging, Brynjolf, but I have taken vows.”

            “Then act as the distraction.” His smile flashed again. “I need to plant something on someone.”

            “Why?” Martin asked, eyes narrowing.

            “Because he’s managed to piss off Maven Black-Briar and a few days in jail is kinder than stones tied to his feet as he falls to the bottom of Lake Honrich,” Brynjolf murmured.

            “Can’t you just warn him or something? I remember when Thieves were friends to the poor, out of pragmatism if nothing else.”

            Brynjolf spread his hands. “If you can persuade Brand-Shei to shut up about Maven, that will work too. Just don’t hold your breath.”

            Martin nodded and went over to Brand-Shei, who was a Dunmer clad in simple garments with a mixture of Argonian and Morrowind embroidery. “Goods from Morrowind!” the merchant called as Martin neared his store. “Can I interest you in some flin, sujamma or exotic meats?”

            “I could barter a few things for some of that dried ash hopper jerky and smoked pork,” Martin said with a smile. “Do you deal in gems, jewellery or enchanted goods?”

            “It depends,” Brand-Shei said. “I won’t take that sapphire you flashed to Brynjolf – just as a precaution, of course. Too much corruption in Riften these days and while I’m sure you’re an honest man, I can’t take the chance.”

            “Brynjolf told me to tell you that you’ve angered Maven to the point where she wants the Guild to do something about you,” Martin said as he pulled out an enchanted draugr’s sword and some bracers. “Now, so long as you stop speaking out about this Maven, he’ll drop the matter.”

            Brand-Shei snorted. “The Guild can barely take care of itself these days.”

            “But they’re still good enough to frame you for something you didn’t do,” Martin pointed out. “Can you really do something about Riften while in the jail with a thief’s brand?”

            “Fine! You’re damn near as persuasive as Brynjolf.” Brand-Shei examined the bracers and sword. “I can give you fifty septims for those… or a week’s worth of jerky and meat. I need to clear out some stock anyway, so I’ll throw in two jars of sujamma.”

            “I’ll take it,” Martin said.

            “Thanks.” Brand-Shei wrapped up the meat and sujamma in woven-grass cloth of Argonian design. “What do you want with the Guild, anyway? You don’t seem like a Thief.”

            “I have a relative in the Guild and I need to talk to him,” Martin admitted quietly. “Persuading you to back off about Maven was their price for free passage.”

            Brand-Shei nodded with a sigh. “I suppose I can’t blame a man for what he does for family. Just watch out for Maven. She uses the Dark Brotherhood on a regular basis.”

            “I will,” Martin promised. He took his package, nodded to the Dunmer, and returned to Brynjolf.

            “Well done,” Brynjolf said quietly as he packed up the bottles of Falmerblood Elixir. “Brand-Shei’s a good man but he has a big mouth. Now, you’ve got the choice of going through the front way on your own – and dealing with whatever sorry sots and scum you run into down there – or be blindfolded and taken through another way by me.”

            “That’s your idea of free passage?” Martin asked incredulously.

            Brynjolf smiled wryly. “Consider it a test, lad.”

…

Irkand was nursing a mug of weak mead when the dirty, dishevelled mage who looked like a poor man’s Martin Septim entered the Ragged Flagon. His robes were tattered and travel-stained, his face hadn’t been shaved in several days, and his nut-brown hair was in need of a good wash and comb. But there was a heavy pack on his shoulders and the Orcish sword hanging at his side looked well-sharpened.

            “He made it,” Brynjolf said from his post at the bar. Now resplendent in his silver-studded black leathers, the Thief was the stuff of every foolish adolescent’s dreams about handsome rogues. But for all his cunning, Brynjolf was peculiarly blind to what was in front of him – like Mercer’s betrayal of the Guild. Irkand _still_ hadn’t found a way to break the news of how Gallus really died to the Day Master.

            “Friend of yours?” Irkand asked after a swallow of mead.

            “He’s looking for _you_ , actually. Korli sent him down to learn about family history,” was Brynjolf’s remark. “Martin Northstar, priest of the Order of the Hourglass.”

            Irkand nearly choked on his mead. Only an Aurelii would understand the significance of those names. Only one would have the balls to use them so openly.

            Up close, Martin was handsome in the Colovian manner, his warm olive complexion and bright blue eyes hauntingly familiar. No wonder Irkand knew nothing of him. He proclaimed the Aurelii’s Septim lineage to the masses.

            _Might just be young enough to be a bastard of Rustem’s,_ Irkand mused. His brother had the blue eyes. But Martin’s features had a sculpted appearance that spoke of Nord blood. _Maybe even one of Father’s. Gods know the old bastard carried on with various mistresses._

“Take a seat, your Imperial Majesty,” Irkand said, gesturing to the other chair at his table.

            “’Your Imperial Majesty’?” Martin asked.

            “You look like a poor man’s Martin Septim,” Irkand said dryly. “Ballsy of you to use those names, kinsman.”

            “Martin is my name,” was the mage’s response as he sat down. “I was born in Kvatch and I have the right to the name Northstar.”

            “He’s also a priest of Akatosh too,” Brynjolf called out. “Not too holy to talk Brand-Shei into backing off, though.”

            “I thought it better to keep a good man out of jail by counselling silence,” Martin said mildly, but his blue eyes had hardened dangerously. “Why don’t you try and catch a goat, Brynjolf?”

            “He’s related to Korli alright,” laughed Vex from the shadows.

            “At least I know I’ll never suffer a bloated ego with our favourite Agent of Kynareth running around,” Brynjolf said wryly. “Has she told everyone that story?”

            “Near enough,” Martin said.

            “What brings you here?” Irkand said softly as the others went back to their conversations.

            “To learn our family history,” Martin said simply. “Arngeir said that the Blades had become corrupt and Korli told me the Blades and Talos corrupted each other. Sigdrifa told me that I had to be a bastard of Arius Aurelius and Ulfric said, and I quote, ‘the blood of the Madgoddess manifested very strongly in Arius and his sons’.”

            “That is hilarious coming from the woman who fled Cloud Ruler Temple with Ulfric and a few Talosite relics instead of her own daughter,” Irkand said sardonically. “But yes, the esteemed Jarl of Windhelm was fundamentally correct about our father. Arius was a megalomaniacal psychopath with delusions of grandeur and the utmost certainty he was the rightful Emperor of Tamriel. Sadly, he had the Illusion magic to back it up and so many good Blades died. I was… elsewhere when Cloud Ruler Temple fell. Afterwards, I joined the Cyrodiil Thieves Guild and eventually transferred to Riften because… well, you needn’t mind.”

            Martin took a deep breath and released it slowly. “And who precisely is the ‘Madgoddess’?”

            Irkand regarded him in shock. “You who claim the name Northstar ask that?”

            “Explain it to me,” he said flatly.

            “The Madgoddess is Aurelia Northstar, Hero of Kvatch and Champion of Cyrodiil. After your Septim namesake died fighting Mehrunes Dagon, she stayed around long enough to birth Julius Martin and leave him with her father Agol’s family before going to the Shivering Isles and mantling an aspect of Sheogorath.” Irkand drained his mead and poured himself another. “Julius Martin was murdered by a Thalmor named Ondolemar. He’s now the chief Justicar in Skyrim and is based in Markarth over in the Reach. Korli, as you know, is a goatherd who just happens to be a High Priestess of Kynareth. My brother Rustem is a Dark Brother and I am a Thief. You, apparently, are a Priest of Akatosh who looks like the reincarnation of Martin fucking Septim himself.”

            “What happened to Marius and Ralinde?” Martin asked urgently. “They were Altmer. They should have survived.”

            “Assassinated by Thalmor, I suppose.” Irkand shrugged. “The Thalmor hunted down and wiped out most of the Blades and their allies. The Elder Council threw us under the cart because Martin and Aurelia rolled over them, Grandmaster Jauffre and even Chancellor Ocato.”

            He drained this cup of mead, poured himself a fifth, and smiled crookedly at Martin. “Welcome to the family. You have a high chance of being murdered or going mad. Good luck with that.”


	5. Sam Guevenne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, grief, alcohol abuse, and mentions of massacre. Martin was a Sanguine cultist, he isn’t in the best of moods at the moment, and Sam Guevenne likes to help his old friends, so ‘A Night to Remember’ will be different.

 

Martin exited the Ragged Flagon divested of gold and enchanted goods by the Guild’s fence but clad in a better set of Destruction robes in a deep orange cotton, black fur-lined boots on his feet, and enough gold to travel nearly anywhere in Skyrim. He tried not to think about the neatly repaired slashes in the robes or the subtle wear on the boots. Brynjolf seemed jovial enough but there was a sharp edge to the Thieves of Riften, a desperate hunger born of more than simple greed and outcasts banding together. A conversation between Vex and Delvin about the Guild’s luck going sour had briefly caught his attention as a means of distraction from what Irkand told him.

            He entered the Bee and Barb, handed a few coins over to the innkeep Keerava for a bed, and several more to Talen-Jei for one of his special drinks. “You look like you could use a Cliff Racer,” the Argonian remarked. “Firebrand Wine, Cyrodiilic Brandy, Flin and Sujamma.”

            “I’ll take it.”

            The Cliff Racer was potent, burning like coals sliding down his gullet and settling in his belly. Martin drank it in one long swallow and slammed the flagon down on the table. “Another! …Please.”

            He was on his third and feeling a bit insulated from the bad news when a wiry Breton clad in similar mage robes to his sat down beside him at the bar. “You look like you can hold your liquor,” he drawled in a drink-roughened tenor. “How about we have a contest for you to win my staff?”

            Martin still needed money for the carriage ride to Morthal. But he wanted to get very, very drunk. “I’ll do it.”

            Sam’s brew (that was the Breton’s name) was even more intoxicating than the Cliff Racer, but went down smooth and sweet like the finest of plum brandies from High Rock. “A second, please,” Martin asked, holding out his cup.

            “A second? Sure thing.” Sam poured him another cup. “If you can handle three, you win my staff.”

            “No problemsh,” Martin told him. “I love you.”

            “I love you too, Martin.” Sam patted him on the back. “One more and then we’ll hit the road for a place where the wine flows like water…”

            “Thash a grape idea…”

…

Martin woke up. He was in a temple. The stained-glass windows, the scent of incense and dried flowers, and the reproachful gaze of Mara, tears on her bronze cheeks, told him that. He sat up, head pounding like Bosmer drums, and heard the long-suffering sigh of a Dunmer woman.

            “You certainly had a big night,” remarked the priestess as she knelt by his side, hands resting on his temples. Golden chimes filled the air and the pain eased. “I am Dinya Balu. You are?”

            “Martin,” he croaked. “What happened?”

            Dinya sighed. “You walked in here with a giant’s toe, a hagraven’s feather and a note. You mentioned something about a marriage and a goat and a staff. You tried to steal holy water and when my husband Maramal asked you about the customary donation, you proceeded to throw rubbish everywhere and vomit at the foot of the statue of Mara. I’m impressed. Sanguine couldn’t have done a better performance of profane public drunkenness.”

            “I’m sorry,” Martin said, rubbing his head. “How can I help?”

            “Cleaning up and a small donation will suffice,” Dinya said.

            Once he’d done that, received a tiny flask of holy water, and been firmly escorted to the door of the Benevolence by Dinya, Martin sat on a bench outside and read the confusing note left by Sam. “Items to repair staff: giant’s toe, holy water and Hagraven feathers,” he read aloud.

            “Martin?” greeted a slightly portly Argonian in merchant’s garb. “Can you pay me for the wedding ring?”

            “Wedding ring?” Martin asked confusedly.

            “Yes. You asked for one last night just before I went home and said you’d pay me back later.” The Argonian smiled. “Silver and in traditional Saxhleel interlace.”

            Martin groaned inwardly. “How much?”

            Five hundred septims later, Madesi was smiling. “You said you met the lady at Witchmist Grove and were going to get married at Morvunskar in Eastmarch after you delivered the dowry of exactly one silk-wool goat from Ivarstead. I don’t know how you got Korli to part with one of her prized goats, but I’m impressed.”

            _Akatosh have mercy on my soul,_ Martin thought silently. _What did I_ do _last night?_

“You stole one of my goats, dammit!” Korli said in Ivarstead after Martin asked her that question. The compact brunette was positively livid and in the lines of her face, Martin remembered Aurelia in her rage.

            “I don’t know how or why,” Martin protested. “I got very drunk with a Breton last night-“

            “Sam Guevenne?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

            “Yes,” Martin said. “He said I won a staff and it just needed some repairs. Apparently I’m also betrothed to someone at Witchmist Grove and to be married at Morvunskar.”

            Korli went very quiet for a moment. Then she sighed. “Have fun, Martin. I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you what happened. Do try to get my goat back, please.”

            Clairvoyance took him to the Aalto volcanic plains of southern Eastmarch. The goat was located in a camp owned by a very big scarified… not an Ogre. It was too smart to be an Ogre. Maybe a giant? Martin used Illusion to coax the beasty near, which offended the giant – who was missing a toe – and he had to conjure Atronachs to kill the monster. His Clairvoyance showed him Witchmist Grove wasn’t too far away, so Martin sighed and went there.

            Witchmist Grove was a stand of twisted trees surrounded by a fence with posts bearing goat’s heads and bowls carrying some kind of green-veined wooden heart. A horrible conjoining of raven and woman stepped out of the shack, smiling.

            “Darling! I've been waiting for you to return, to consummate our love!”

            “Wait, _what_?” Martin blurted. “I’m just here for the bloody ring!”

            “What? You want it for that hussy Esmerelda, with the dark feathers - don't you? I won't let her have you!” The raven-hag-thing threw a fireball and chased Martin around the grove until he was able to conjure a Storm Atronach to fight her off while he cast Lightning Bolt. She died and he found the silver ring – lovely bit of work – on her finger.

            “Now to Morvunskar,” he said to Korli’s goat, who was nuzzling the straw of Moira’s bed. “Sam has some explaining to do.”

            Morvunskar wasn’t very romantic. In fact, it was filled with necromancers and conjurors who took Martin’s presence as a personal affront. He tethered the goat to the nearest post, went inside, and had to fight them all with conjured Atronachs and even his Orcish sword. He was just emptying the chest of expensive magical goods by the throne when the world turned blue and then transformed into a misty grove full of the sounds of partying.

            “You’re here!” said the large red-and-black horned Dremora at the head of the table. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it.”

            “Sanguine,” Martin said flatly. Everything fell into place.

            “Good to see you again, Martin.” Sanguine smiled toothily. “I thought you might not remember your first trip here. You had a big night. I think you've definitely earned the staff.”

            “The Sanguine Rose?” Martin grated.

            “What else could it be?” A delicate five-foot thorny branch, carved from ebony and tipped with a pink diamond crafted into a blossoming rose, appeared in the Daedric Prince’s hand.

            “I belong to Akatosh now.”

            “Yes, I know.” Sanguine rose to his feet and walked around the table towards Martin. “I also know you had a lousy few months before you died and then Akatosh brought you back for another go at saving the world from your asshole big brother. I figured you could use a bit of fun in your life.”

            He guided Martin to a seat. “I can’t keep you and I won’t befuddle you. But I can sit and listen to an old friend.”

            “Korli’s goat-“

            “Is right here.” Sanguine gestured to the goat now tied up to a nearby tree, nose deep in fragrant hay and sweet-feed. “I’m a little surprised everyone’s favourite Agent of Kyne didn’t tell you who I was.”

            “She told me I wouldn’t believe her if she did,” Martin said with a sigh, accepting a drink from one of the Dremora butlers. Everyone else at the table appeared to be Nord and clad in rough garments.

            “She doesn’t know who you really are, does she?” Sanguine asked shrewdly, returning to his place at the table.

            “Would she believe me?” Martin asked.

            “Once, Korli held the fate of the world in her hands after a Thalmor agent tried to use a powerful Aedric artefact to unravel mortal man’s existence,” Sanguine said, selecting a sweetmeat from his plate and nibbling on it. “She could have erased the Altmer from existence, made herself Empress of Nirn or even turned Skyrim into a tropical paradise.”

            “But she didn’t.”

            “No, she did none of that.” Sanguine swallowed some wine from his goblet. “Because she understood that what use is all the power in the world if you can’t have fun with it. She chose to be happy and content rather than reclaim her family’s rightful inheritance.”

            Martin exhaled shakily and took a swallow from his cup. It was a sweet fruity brew, much weaker than what he remembered Sam serving at the Bee and Barb. “Sanguine… Is it true about Aurelia?”

            “Yes. The Greymarch – long tedious story there, but suffice to say Jyggalag is a joyless asshole who takes the fun out of life – was coming and Sheogorath knew it. Aurelia had always been a little cracked, so he called her to the Shivering Isles and everything else is history.” Sanguine drank some more wine. “After Dagon’s little stunt, she got a few of us Daedric Princes together. You got your assholes who want to conquer Nirn, but most of us like the place as it is. So me, her, Hircine, Meridia, Azura, Malacath and occasionally a couple of the others lend a hand to protect the world. Won’t get us becoming earthbones like those idiot Aedra but we won’t let the Thalmor destroy the world either.”

            “What are you saying, Sanguine?” Martin asked carefully.

            “I’m just saying that you have some choice this time around,” Sanguine said patiently. “You don’t have to sit around while others do the work like a sacrificial lamb. You wanna go to the College, go to the College! Want to bed a member of every sentient race within Skyrim’s borders? Give me a holler and I’ll give a hand. You might be the Last Dragonborn, but this time around, it’s you who’s writing destiny – not the other way around.”

            Martin took a largish gulp of his fruity drink. “What about Alduin and the civil war?”

            “Alduin is your problem but the civil war isn’t unless you get involved in it.” Sanguine smiled toothily. “Though I do recommend going drinking with Bjarni. He’s fun and knows all the kinky Dunmer ladies.”

            Martin snorted. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

            Sanguine leaned over and patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll send you back to Ivarstead when this is over. Keep the Sanguine Rose. Consider it my contribution to saving the world.”

            Then he leaned back and snapped his fingers. “But first, we are going to have a rollicking good time, just like the good old days.”


	6. Whiterun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

Martin returned Korli’s goat after Sanguine sent him back to Ivarstead. The problem was that she’d gone up to somewhere called Eldergleam Sanctuary and it was Gwilin taking care of the herd for a few days, so he couldn’t even ask how she knew Sanguine or even how she saved the world. With little choice, Martin caught the carriage to Whiterun, which involved a trip back through Falkreath’s dour pine forests, a lumber village called Riverwood, and the edge of a great green-golden plain filled with farms and deer to a three-tiered city that seemed the essence of _Nord_. He hopped off the wagon, gave the carriage driver a tip, and walked up the road to the gate.

            “City’s closed because of the dragons,” said the gate-guard. In this Hold, the guards wore saffron wraps instead of the Rift’s indigo or Falkreath’s dark blue. The banners hanging from the gates depicted a rearing horse in intricate interlaced designs. Nordic art in Skyrim tended towards the stylised, he noted.

            “I have news of the dragons,” Martin told him truthfully. “They’ve been seen in Eastmarch, Falkreath and the Rift.”

            “Jarl will want to speak to you,” the guard said as he opened the gates. “We’ll be watching you.”

            Inside, Whiterun was a city of cream-white plaster, oaken beams, silver-grey stone and bright banners everywhere. The people were nearly as cosmopolitan as any Imperial city, clad in bright colours with a hint of comfortable plumpness, and Martin saw the wares of every province displayed in the stalls. In the Wind District, there was a small tree that bloomed with pink, white and red flowers, its scent sharp and cold like a fresh wind, while a man openly preached about Talos under a grim-visaged statue that was probably the Nord depiction of the Hero-God. Beyond that was a hall that looked like an overturned boat and the sound of ringing metal. Over it all stood a great palace that could rival any count’s residence in Cyrodiil and outdo a few in terms of sheer beauty.

            “Dragonsreach,” said the priestess tending the tree when Martin asked her. “It’s the second-oldest building in Whiterun after Jorrvaskr.”

            “Jorrvaskr?”

            She nodded to the boat-hall. “Home of the Companions.”

            Martin was about to ask about the Companions, but then he remembered Sidgara mentioning they were Skyrim’s equivalent of the Fighters’ Guild. Instead he looked down at the tree and asked, “I’ve never seen a tree like this before.”

            “And you never will. It is the Gildergreen, a sapling of the Eldergleam tree from Eastmarch,” was the priestess’ reply. “It is sacred to Kynareth.”

            “I met another priestess of Kynareth in the Rift,” Martin said thoughtfully as he studied the tree.

            “She and I are both High Priestesses of the Mother of Men,” the priestess said. “I am Danica Pure-Spring. I tend to the Temple, the Gildergreen and the healing waters. Korli is the one who tends Eldergleam Sanctuary and the wild places of Skyrim.”

            “I couldn’t imagine her in a Temple,” Martin agreed with a chuckle. “How would she fit the goats inside?”

            Danica chuckled. “You _have_ met her.”

            “I have indeed. It’s been nice chatting to you, but I do need to see someone at Dragonsreach.”

            “Peace be with you, child of Kynareth.”

            Dragonsreach was impressive on the inside, a great hall hung with golden banners, elaborate weapons and tapestries depicting Nord legends. Martin climbed the steps as the Jarl, a rangy blond man who looked like an older, softer, more richly dressed version of Ralof, argued with his Steward about sending troops to Riverwood and a place called Rorikstead. He was halfway down the aisle between feasting tables when a Dunmer woman met him, elven sword drawn. “The Jarl isn’t holding audiences today,” she said grimly. “State your business.”

            “I was at Helgen and the guards told me that the Jarl would want to see me,” Martin answered.

            “You were at Helgen? Come along, Balgruuf will want to speak to you.” The womer led him to Balgruuf, who raised an eyebrow at Martin as they neared.

            “Who’s this, Irileth? I’m not seeing anyone until we know the extent of the dragon problem.”

            “He says he was at Helgen,” Irileth reported.

            “I see.” Balgruuf’s ice-blue eyes were keen. “What took you a week and a half to come to Whiterun?”

            “I had family business in the Rift,” Martin said honestly. “I honestly didn’t think about speaking to the Jarls about the dragons until a couple days ago.”

            “You’re honest,” Balgruuf observed. “What happened at Helgen?”

            “Well, General Tullius had rounded up myself and a couple civilians in addition to several Stormcloaks in a carnificina-“

            “A carnificina? That’s preposterous!” proclaimed the hook-nosed Steward. “An Imperial citizen of Cyrodiil is immune to the carnificina.”

            “I was heading to the headman’s block,” Martin said grimly. “Tullius didn’t give a damn so long as he could kill Ulfric and Bjarni Stormcloak.”

            “I should have known Ulfric would be wrapped up in this,” Balgruuf growled. “Well, did Tullius do us that much of a favour?”

            “No. The arrival of the dragon allowed us all to make our escapes,” Martin explained. “The last I saw Ulfric, he was alive.”

            “Damn.” Balgruuf sighed gustily. “There’s hope for Bjarni, but Ulfric’s little better than a barbaric renegade.”

            “We have it confirmed that a dragon demolished Helgen,” Irileth said. “Shall I send troops to Riverwood and Rorikstead?”

            “If you do that, Siddgeir and Igmund will believe you’ve gone over to Ulfric’s side and are sending soldiers to attack their Holds,” the Steward said unctuously.

            “Fuck the Jarls of Falkreath and the Reach,” was Balgruuf’s blunt response. “I won’t stand idly by while a dragon burns my Hold and slaughters my people!”

            He nodded to Irileth. “See to it at once.”

            “Yes, my Jarl,” Irileth said as she saluted.

            “As for you,” Balgruuf said, studying Martin closely, “I have a job for someone who’s survived a dragon. Come with me.”

            “I have business in Morthal,” Martin said.

            “And you can’t spare a day or two to find something my court wizard assures me is critical to understanding why the dragons have returned?” Balgruuf asked, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve never met the wizard who couldn’t use a bit of extra gold.”

            Fuming, Martin followed the autocratic ruler to the court wizard, a pudgy Nord with impressive sideburns who was pottering over an alchemy table. “Careful,” Martin said, “You’re overheating that sap.”

            “What? I…” The mage paused, looked at the contents of the mortar, and swiftly pulled it from the magical fire. “Forgive me, I see you have some knowledge of alchemy.”

            “He’s also survived a dragon,” Balgruuf said dryly. “Farengar, this is…”

            “Martin Northstar,” Martin said quickly. “Priest of the Order of the Hourglass.”

            “A priest of the Dragon-God who was nearly killed by a dragon. Is that coincidence or providence, I wonder?” Farengar set aside the mortar and bustled over to the desk. “I need you to go crawling in a ruin full of draugr in search of an ancient stone tablet.”

            “This has to do with dragons… what, exactly?” Martin asked.

            “Ah, I see you are more than a mere brute. Maybe even a scholar.” Every word from Farengar’s mouth reminded Martin of the most condescending Altmer mages he knew back in the Guild days. “The Dragonstone, I’m told, is a map of ancient dragon burials. With that, I can cross-reference with a modern map of Skyrim and locate all known Dragon Cult tombs, dragon burial mounds and possibly even Word Walls.”

            “You’re a scholar of the Thu’um?” Martin asked curiously.

            “Oh, no. The Thu’um requires too much effort for so little reward.” Farengar dusted his hands off. “Modern magic is _much_ more efficient than primal draconic sorcery.”

            Martin reminded himself that Shouting Farengar arse over head was a misuse of the Thu’um under the Way of the Voice. Probably.

            “Do this and Whiterun will be in your debt,” Balgruuf said heartily. “What do you say?”

            _Do I have a bloody choice?_ “Fine. I’ll do it.”

 


	7. Bleak Falls Barrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and corpse desecration.

 

“Hey, Brother Martin!”

            The priest-mage, now dressed in a much better set of robes sewn from deep orange cotton, turned suddenly with lightning blooming between his fingers. Bjarni and Ralof held up their hands peaceably until the lightning disappeared and Martin came closer. The resemblance to the historical portraits of Martin Septim was even more astonishing in the clear light of early morning, if the last true Emperor of Tamriel had been slightly dishevelled with tousled nut-brown hair, stubble growing into a beard, and bags under those bright blue eyes. “I apologise,” he said, bringing his hands together. “You startled me.”

            “You didn’t actually throw lightning at me. This is good,” Bjarni said with a wry smile. “What brings you to the wrong side of Whiterun?”

            “Jarl Balgruuf,” Martin said with a grimace. “I have business at a place called Ustengrav, but I decided to tell the Jarl of what happened at Helgen. The next thing I know, I’m mistaken for a sell-spell and sent after some stone map of dragon burials because Balgruuf is a hard man to say no to.”

            “He’s a canny, persuasive bastard,” Bjarni agreed with a laugh. “Ustengrav…? That’s over in Hjaalmarch, a bit outside Morthal. Burial place of Jurgen Windcaller, if I recall my father’s stories correctly.”

            “I know,” Martin said with a sigh. “Do you think I could just go over this mountain and head there without Balgruuf knowing?”

            “Not likely. Balgruuf’s not a man you can piss off.” Bjarni nodded in the direction of Whiterun. “Whoever wins his support will win the civil war. So far, he’s played both sides.”

            “He better make a decision soon,” Ralof rumbled. “More of his people than not support the Stormcloaks.”

            “The end of days is here and the Jarls are concerned with petty politics,” Martin said with another sigh. “Reminds me of the Counts of Cyrodiil during the Oblivion Crisis.”

            “So, if you’re chasing Dragon Cult artefacts, I’m guessing you’re off to Bleak Falls Barrow,” Bjarni observed after Martin’s slightly odd remark. He spoke of the political unrest in Cyrodiil during the Oblivion Crisis like he’d been there. “Want a hand?”

            Ralof rolled his eyes. “He’s spent the past week and a half cooped up in my sister’s cottage. He just wants to hit some draugr out of boredom.”

            “Draugr?” Martin asked, eyebrow rising.

            “Our name for the embalmed undead of our ancestors,” Bjarni explained. “Ralof’s right, of course, but I know enough about dragonlore to be aware of how damned useful a map of the buried bastards would be. If you let me make a rubbing of it to take back to Da, I’d be grateful.”

            Martin shrugged. “You might as well come along.”

            They were walking up towards Bleak Falls Barrow when Bjarni noticed the ebon thorny branch lashed to Martin’s back. “Is that the _Sanguine Rose_?”

            “Yes. If a Breton named Sam Guevenne appears next to you in the local bar, don’t drink what he has to offer you. You might wind up in the Temple of Mara, completely hungover and unknowingly betrothed to a Hagraven.”

            Ralof grinned. “You can’t stop there, man!”

            It took Martin the entire trip to the front doors of Bleak Falls Barrow, interrupted by attacks from random bandits, to relate the story. Ralof whistled when he heard about Martin stealing one of Korli Wind-of-Kyne’s silk-wool goats. “She didn’t kill you? She nearly killed two Stormcloak scouts for taking a goat to cook.”

            “We’re related,” Martin said tersely. “She sent me down to Riften to speak to my… brother… Irkand. I might have gotten a little drunk after learning of the true depravity of my… father.”

            “If you want chapter and verse, speak to the Stormsword,” Ralof said grimly.

            “Yes, I know. She was married to my other brother Rustem.” The hesitation around the word ‘brother’ was unusual.

            Bjarni grimaced. “Yep. Don’t mention him around my mother unless she does so first. It’s a very touchy subject.”

            Martin opened the doors to the tomb. “Let’s be done with this.”

            A few more bandits, a giant spider, numerous draugr and, for some variety, several skeevers infested the barrow. They were charred, electrocuted, frozen, smashed and cut into pieces. And that was just Martin. The man was as relentless and unstoppable as a Dwemer machine.

            They were resting in the great sanctum, Martin studying the Word Wall intently, when Ralof’s mouth tightened. “Bjarni,” he murmured. “I think Martin’s the Last Dragonborn.”

            Somehow, that wasn’t as great a surprise as Bjarni would have expected it to be. “It makes sense,” he agreed softly. “I mean, he looks like Martin Septim come again.”

            Ralof didn’t answer because as Martin turned away from the Word Wall, the king-draugr arose from its stone sarcophagus. He removed his throwing axe from his belt and threw it, the weapon spinning over and over until the axe embedded itself in the king-draugr’s skull. That gave Martin enough time to cut the draugr’s legs off at the knees and then remove its head.

            “I’d hate to be on the wrong side of you in a battle,” Ralof said as the priest-mage wiped his Orcish sword with a bit of shroud-linen.

            “The feeling is mutual,” Martin said with a smile, handing Ralof the draugr’s head with the throwing axe still embedded.

            Ralof smashed the skull on the corner of the stone sarcophagus casually. “Let’s see what grave goods this Dragon Cultist had. The cause can always use weapons and money.”

            “You’d have made a good Blade,” Martin remarked. “I mean, before everything went wrong.”

            “Thanks.” Ralof smashed the grave goods chest’s lock with his throwing axe. “That’s what you were trained as, aye? A Blade?”

            “Something like that,” Martin admitted. “My foster father was a Blade and he trained me in the sword, then I went to Arcane University to study magic. My life as a priest came after some, uh, stupidity involving a Conjured Dremora.”

            Bjarni grinned at him. “I’m guessing you accidentally summoned Sanguine.”

            “Not _that_ time!” Martin blurted.

            Then his eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t laugh, Bjarni Ulfricsson. Sanguine told me you know all the kinky Dunmer ladies.”

            Bjarni laughed. “And Ralof knows all the kinky Nord ones!”

            “And a couple non-Nord ones,” Ralof said as he looted the chest. “But yes, Bjarni is the specialist in Dunmer women.”

            Bjarni shrugged. “I prefer to think of it as building relationships with the Dunmer community of Eastmarch.”

            “It’s going to get you disinherited by the Thanes of Eastmarch if you’re not careful.” Ralof stacked some half-decent enchanted armour to the side. “You know most of them hear ‘mer’ and their brains shut down from sheer rage.”

            “Not all mer-“ Martin bit his lip. “I apologise. I guess because of the Thalmor, they must think all mer are in league with each other.”

            “I won’t lie, the Dunmer and the Nords have loathed each other since the First Era,” Bjarni admitted. “Neither side has clean hands. But the Thalmor want to screw us all over. I just wish my father could see that.”

            Martin nodded as Ralof bagged the loot. They could divide it in Riverwood, if Martin wanted any of it. “I lost friends and family to the Thalmor. If the Empire has so forgotten itself that it allows a foreign power to deny its god and destroy its citizens… Perhaps it needs to be burned down and rebuilt. But the dragons… the dragons must take precedence.”

            “Aye,” Bjarni agreed.

            If this man was the Dragonborn, he was certainly a sensible one.


	8. Riverwood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. I use a mod called Mainland Stalhrim, hence the references to stalhrim in old Nord tombs. I can’t believe it’s exclusive to Solstheim, lore-wise.

 

Bjarni made the rubbing of the Word Wall while Ralof examined some kind of strange blue rock half-covering a draugr in a nearby open coffin. “Stalhrim,” he said, knocking on the rough unpolished surface. “If I had an ebony pickaxe, I could pry enough of it free to make a sword or hand-axe.”

            Martin touched the stalhrim and pulled his hand back sharply. “It’s cold!”

            “It’s the never-melting ice of the Atmorani,” Ralof said gravely. “Once, it is said, every smith of the Nords couldn’t call themselves a master at their craft until they made something of the stuff. Now, only Eorlund Grey-Mane can work it on the mainland, and Jarls would kill for a weapon. Sigdrifa has an amulet of stalhrim and it’s said Talos wore a chainmail shirt made from it.”

            “We should tell the old man about it,” Bjarni said, rolling up the paper and stashing it in his pack. “Eorlund owns an ebony pickaxe, but he only lends it out to the Companions. Things are lean for him and Father would sell half his soul for a weapon of stalhrim. If we can’t find the Jagged Crown or Queen Freydis’ sword, a stalhrim axe will do.”

            “Companions are the equivalent of the Fighters’ Guild in Skyrim, right?” Martin asked as they climbed stairs to the entrance outside.

            “Yes and no,” Ralof replied. “They do fight for coin, but there are things they won’t do, and if you can convince them that something that needs to be done is in Skyrim’s best interests, they may even work for loot or free. The Harbinger is the one who arbitrates all duels of honour in Skyrim, as they are politically and legally neutral.”

            “Father’s duel with Torygg fulfilled most of the legal technicalities,” Bjarni said with a sigh. “But it was murder. Torygg was raised in Cyrodiil as a hostage for his father’s good behaviour and so he knew nothing of war. He hadn’t even killed an ice wraith.”

            Ralof nodded reluctantly. “Ulfric was making a point about how weak the Empire had made the Jarls. But… Torygg died well. Standing up to Ulfric with a butter-knife in hand and telling him that this duel was murder took courage, I’ll give him that.”

            “Nords who die with a weapon in their hands go to Sovngarde, right?” Martin asked as they emerged from the cave, looking over a great lake as sunset blazed bronze and amber across the sky.

            “Yes.” Ralof climbed down and helped them both down. “Those who die of illness or old age are reborn – breathed in by Kyne and breathed out again. The winter-dead - those who froze to death - become ice wraiths who need to be killed in order to be reborn. For the sea-dead, the dragon-bound draugr and the soul-trapped, there is only damnation, no rebirth or Sovngarde.”

            “Nords sworn to particular gods go to those gods, I imagine,” Bjarni said as he shaded his gaze with his hand, scanning the lake. “Egil, my brother, is a lay Vigilant of Stendarr. I think he would have taken vows, but one of us will inherit Falkreath and the other Windhelm. Falkreath in particular has no worthy heirs.”

            “My mother’s father was a Nord,” Martin said. “But I never heard about all of this in Cyrodiil.”

            “Most Cyro-Nords are basically hairy Colovians,” Ralof said bluntly.

            Martin nodded. “I suppose to the Nords from Skyrim, they would be.”

            It was a long peaceful walk to Riverwood, though they stopped at something Ralof called the Guardian Stones. Bjarni touched one and blue-white light bloomed in the form of the Warrior Constellation, spearing into the dusk-purple sky. “Doomstones,” he said. “If you touch one, your fate is shaped.”

            “Even so, it’s not what you think,” Ralof said as he touched the same stone. “Hunters touch the Thief Stone a lot while I’ve noticed priests prefer the Mage Stone.”

            Martin paused between the stones. Then with a shrug, he touched the Thief Stone. “I need discretion and the cunning of an eel,” he said as Ralof raised an eyebrow in the blue-white light. “I am adept enough with sword and spell to hold my own. But sometimes avoiding a conflict is best.”

            “It’s your destiny,” was all the blond said.

            In Riverwood, Martin followed Ralof and Bjarni to a large neat cottage tucked into the foothills. A sturdy blonde who shared Ralof’s good looks opened the door at his coded knock. “And here I thought I was rid of you two,” she said, chivvying them inside. “Hadvar’s at the inn, drinking enough to drown a mammoth. If you leave before dawn, you should miss him.”

            “Your concern for our safety is touching, Gerdur,” Ralof said dryly. “Our Cyrod friend is Martin Northstar, a priest of Akatosh who acknowledges the divinity of Talos and thinks the Empire could use a boot up the arse.”

            “Any friend of Ralof’s welcome at my house,” Gerdur said warmly. “I’d honestly thought the Thalmor managed to purge all the Talos worshippers in Cyrodiil.”

            “Not for lack of trying,” Martin said with a sigh. “I lived a fairly isolated life until Akatosh called me to Skyrim, so I managed to escape most of the Thalmor’s ire.”

            “The Legion crucified my mother for worshipping Talos,” Gerdur said, mouth tightening. “Hadvar then had the balls to tell us she’d brought her fate upon herself.”

            “I can see why he isn’t popular,” Martin observed.

            A lanky white-blond man named Hod changed the subject to the lumber mill and Gerdur began to discuss some problem with the saw blades with him. Ralof poured himself, Bjarni and Martin homebrewed mead and they sat around the fire in a pensive silence.

            Martin sorely wished Aurelia and Sidgara were here. The former would have won over the Nords with her brutal fighting skills and cheerfulness while the latter could have taught him the ins and outs of Skyrim’s political, religious and social structures. It was no surprise that Ulfric’s hands weren’t clean, not with a former Shieldmaiden wife, but the Empire had lost much of its greatness over the past two hundred years. Had smashing the Amulet of Kings truly been the best choice?

            Ralof had gone to bed shortly after his family had, leaving Bjarni and Martin by the fire. The young Nord poured themselves some more mead and nursed his tankard musingly. “You’re the Dragonborn, aren’t you?” he asked suddenly.

            “I… yes… how,” Martin stammered in surprise.

            Bjarni smirked and drank some mead. “Egil’s smarter than me, but I’m good at putting things together.”

            For a moment, Martin was sorely tempted to just tell Bjarni the truth. But it was one thing to admit you were Dragonborn and another to say that you were the resurrected last Septim Emperor. Not that he’d been crowned. Ocato had wanted to wait on the ceremony before lighting the Dragonfires and in that hesitation, Mehrunes Dagon had broken through.

            _I don’t need anyone thinking I’m mad,_ he thought. _The situation is unstable enough._


	9. The Dragonborn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

It was midmorning by the time Martin returned to Whiterun, carrying the heavy Dragonstone. Twenty, thirty pounds of rune-engraved stone depicting ancient Skyrim and the burial mounds of dragons. The climb up to Dragonsreach reminded him that he’d spent the last three months of his life as a sedentary, book-reading priest. His stamina was getting better, but Ralof and Bjarni had swiftly outpaced him this morning down the switchback trail to the crossroads.

            Balgruuf was lounging indolently in his throne while discussing something in low urgent tones with Irileth. Martin ignored them and went into Farengar’s workroom, where he, Korli and a sharp-faced blonde Breton stood over a map of Skyrim that looked to be of an age with the Dragonstone. “I have it,” he said, dropping the stone tablet on Farengar’s chair. “Now what?”

            “Now my work begins. That of the mind, which is so rarely appreciated in Skyrim,” Farengar said, swooping on the Dragonstone.

            Martin opened his mouth, but Korli – with a roll of her eyes – shook her head. She wore light chainmail and a smear of blue-green war paint across her face in the form of a stylised hawk. A magnificent glass bow and quiver of arrows were slung across her back.

            On the other hand, the blonde wore sturdy, well-worn leather armour and a dai-katana rode at her hip. “You went through Bleak Falls Barrow, huh?” she asked in a brusque soprano. “You’ve got backbone, I’ll give you that.”

            “Martin, this is Delphine. Delphine, this is Martin,” Korli said.

            “Honoured to meet you,” Martin said in Akaviri. “Yes, I know I look like _that_ Martin. Yes, I know I am an Aurelii. Yes, I’m not fond of the Thalmor. Does that answer any further questions?”

            “If we’ve got his lineage right, he’s my uncle,” Korli told Delphine in the same language.

            “I see the resemblance to Rustem and you,” Delphine said with a slight grimace. “What’s his story?”

            “Raised by a foster family, got involved with Arcane University a bit, was married briefly, lost my wife and took vows as a priest of Akatosh,” Martin admitted. “You?”

            “I slept with both your brothers,” Delphine said dryly.

            “Well, despite me carrying the Sanguine Rose, it shan’t be a trifecta,” Martin told her primly. “I still mourn my wife.”

            “It’s confirmed,” Farengar said, drawing everyone’s attention. “There’s a dragon mound outside Rorikstead and another just above Kynesgrove.”

            “Kynesgrove is nearer and follows the pattern,” Korli said. “It makes sense Alduin will raise dragons in the Old Holds, given the lack of cohesion in the Stormcloak forces. The Legion would respond too quickly in the west.”

            “Raise… dragons,” Martin said slowly. “You mean there’s _more_?”

            “The Akaviri and Nords couldn’t kill the dragons permanently, so they hacked them to pieces and buried them,” Korli explained quietly. “Alduin is the World-Eater, the Master of the Grave. He may bring back his minions unless the Dragonborn absorbs a dragon’s soul first.”

            “The Greybeards didn’t mention this,” Martin muttered under his breath.

            Irileth appeared at the door. “We need you. A dragon has attacked the western watchtower and Balgruuf is calling all competent fighters to arms.”

            “So it begins,” Korli said quietly.

            Delphine was the first one out of the workroom, following the dark elf, and Martin exchanged looks with Korli. “How much has Kyne told you?” he asked softly.

            “Enough,” was her response.

            Balgruuf was pacing around in his office upstairs. “Good, you’ve returned from Bleak Falls Barrow,” he said to Martin. “I’ve heard reports from survivors of Helgen that you are a skilled mage. We will need those talents today.”

            “You have me and Delphine as well,” Korli told the Jarl. “I am permitted to intervene during this crisis.”

            “You mean you don’t want the dragons to eat your goats,” Balgruuf said wryly.

            “No. I was thinking of feeding Nelkir, Frothar and Dagny to them instead,” Korli drawled.

            “My children are worth than your goats,” Balgruuf retorted.

            “Maybe,” Irileth muttered.

            “So, western watchtower,” Delphine said. “Anything we need to know before we go down there?”

            Balgruuf nodded. “It’s a fire breather. Be careful.”

            It wasn’t hard to find the western watchtower. It was to the west and it was on fire. They’d joined up with a varied collection of fighters at the gate that Korli identified as some of the Companions of Jorrvaskr. They were led by a grizzled one-eyed man and a lithe redhead whose armour could only be described as a strategically placed set of metal plates and leather straps. With an inward shudder, Martin realised the female draugr wore similar armour in Bleak Falls Barrow.

            “Watch out, he’s still around!” yelled the one surviving guard. “Oh, Kynareth save us, here he comes again!”

            Korli ran for the tower, presumably to gain height for her advantage in shooting, and a great bronze dragon swept down from the heavens. “Zu’u Mirmulnir,” he greeted. “My master will feast on your souls in Sovngarde.”

            Martin unlimbered the Sanguine Rose and cast with it, creating a Dremora in Daedric plate. “Kill the dragon,” he ordered it. Then he slung it across his back once more and conjured a pair of Storm Atronachs, repeating his order.

            “A challenger appears,” rasped the Dremora.

            The Atronachs just fired lightning at the dragon whenever it was in reach.

            The Nords (and Irileth) screamed war cries. Korli’s struck clean and hard. It sounded like a Shout: “FAAS!”

            “FUS RO!” Martin Shouted as the beast landed. The Shout skidded it along the ground a bit.

            Two of the Companions, twins who moved like a well-oiled Dwemer machine, flanked the dragon and began hacking at its wings. Delphine went for the back legs. From on high, Korli rained down arrows and below, Irileth cast Lightning. Martin’s Atronachs, Dremora and his own magic pummelled the beast into pulp.

            At the end, it screamed, “Dovahkiin, niid!”

            Martin felt the dragon’s soul rush towards him, melding seamlessly with the part that Jauffre said came from the blood of Talos. For a moment he was overwhelmed with the taste of ozone and bloody meat, the joorre flashing red-gold-orange for a moment, and he had to throttle down a Shout of triumph.

            When his vision cleared, he was on his knees, panting heavily.

            “I’ve seen many things in my life,” Irileth said slowly. “But this… this is something new.”

            “The last Dragonborn was Martin Septim. Before that, Talos,” Korli said softly, having come down from the tower. “Make of that what you will.”

            “I have seen many things in my life and know what it is to be the prime mover of a prophecy,” Irileth said grimly. “So what now, Korli?”

            She sighed. “We pray that he isn’t Talos come again. I don’t think the world could survive that.”


	10. The Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for grief, slut-shaming and misogyny.

 

“This better be good, Delphine.”

            Rustem sounded irritated. Good. Delphine had been rattled – beyond rattled – by today and Korli had done another one of her vanishing acts, citing a need to check on her beloved silk-wool goats. A quick message sent by pigeon to Falkreath later, she had a very surly assassin seated across from her in the secret cellar under the Sleeping Giant Inn.

            “We’ve found a Dragonborn,” Delphine told him with some asperity. “You can decide whether or not that’s the good news.”

            “Satakal needs all that is to define himself by as all that is not,” was the Redguard’s response. “I’m guessing, by the sour expression on your face, that this is the bastard brother Irkand told me about.”

            Delphine blinked. “You know about him?”

            “The Brotherhood and the Thieves Guild share information. It’s a little thing called ‘professional courtesy’,” Rustem drawled sardonically. “What’s up, love? Couldn’t seduce him?”

            “Fuck you,” Delphine said curtly. “Oh wait, I did. It was nothing home to write about.”

            Rustem simply smiled. “My technique’s improved since then. Not that you’ll ever find out.”

            “Why go back for mediocre seconds?” Delphine shot back. “Oh, and it turns out your daughter sent him to Irkand to learn the sordid family history. Now she’s pissed off back to her goats and left me holding the bag.”

            “Why not? There’s no one in the Old Holds to keep an eye on the dragons,” Rustem said dryly.

            “Because she’s our only source of dragonlore, dammit!” Delphine turned from the smug Redguard. “She has a higher duty than to some fucking goats-“

            “Those goats are a cover, Delphine. Korli isn’t just a priestess of Kyne, she’s a genuine Agent of the goddess,” Rustem interrupted softly. “Or so I was told by a certain religious figure I know.”

            “There is nothing more important than the dragons,” Delphine pointed out. “Hell, Martin Northstar’s living proof that the Aurelii are descended from the Septims. He looks like Martin Septim come again!”

            “So Irkand said.” Rustem chuckled darkly. “I think you’re thrilled about the idea of having an Emperor to serve again, aren’t you?”

            “The Medes need to go,” Delphine said over her shoulder. “Don’t you want vengeance for-“

            “My father was nuttier than a High Rock fruitcake,” Rustem interrupted bluntly. “You know nothing of what I want vengeance for, Delphine, or against whom.”

            The Redguard stood up and pushed himself away from the table. “The Brotherhood won’t attack him. We don’t want the world to end either.”

            “We need every Blade still around-“

            “The Blades are dead. Let it go, Delphine.” Rustem’s blue eyes gleamed. “Or it will be the death of you.”

…

Sheogorath was the Daedric Prince of Madness. For centuries beyond counting, the Greymarch had come and go, Jyggalag manifesting briefly until a new soul took on the mantle of Madgod and then both aspects being reabsorbed into the greater entity that was Sheogorath. But two hundred years or so ago, a thwarted Empress mantled the Madgod instead and split Jyggalag from the greater part of his once-self. The Madgoddess, Monarch of Mania, Doyenne of Dementia, Queen of Quirkiness, Lady of the Lost, Bastion of the Berserkers… She maintained a small aspect of Sheogorath-that-was to placate the Daedric worshippers who expected the dapper gentleman in the motley frock coat, allowed another to bedevil the Dunmer as a corner of the House of Troubles, and passed around her Wabbajack as was needed.

            But now, she allowed herself to assume her most usual aspect and sit comfortably on the throne provided most graciously by Sanguine in the Misty Grove, a cup of ale in hand. There was madness related to overindulgence, where her sphere met that of the Daedric Prince of debauchery and dark pleasures, just as her berserker rage touched on Malacath’s own fury. The trio understood and respected each other. The only other trinity with such tight bonds were Azura, Boethiah and Mephala, the reigning Reclamations of the Dunmer.

            Others sat at the table, not all of them Daedric or immortal. A meeting like this was perhaps unprecedented since the days of the Aedra meeting at the Direnni Tower. Most of the Aedra had subsumed themselves into the earthbones… but there was enough of them remaining to form coherent aspects and influence the worlds they made. Two of those Aspects, one embodied in the form of a mortal Agent and the other a minor Avatar, sat across from her.

            “So.” Sanguine stood at the head of the table, goblet of wine in hand. “We are gathered here today to discuss the actions of the mighty Akatosh in sending down a literal Avatar to kick the arse of his bratty firstborn.”

            “It was necessary,” remarked the man of indeterminate Cyro-Nord ancestry, the only thing noticeable about him being a pair of bright blue eyes. “Most of the candidates among the Cyrod and Nord peoples were unsuitable and when we approached the Redguard gods about activating one of their children, Sura-HoonDing threw me out on my arse.”

            The Agent of Kyne snorted. “What did you expect, oh Emperor of the World? Sura-HoonDing still holds a grudge from the Tiber War – a rightful one, I might add.”

            Malacath smirked as Hjalti – to use one of the god’s many names – scowled. “It just isn’t your Era, is it?” the Prince of the Bloody Oath asked.

            “I came here in good faith, not to be insulted,” Hjalti retorted flatly.

            “You came here uninvited,” Aurelia reminded him with a smile. “Don’t cry if no one’s your friend.”

            “Now, now, be nice to old Tally here,” Sanguine drawled, sipping from his goblet. “I mean, his Empire dropped him like a bad habit a few years ago so he’s a bit touchy, the poor thing.”

            Hjalti’s scowl grew darker. “I will not stand here and be insulted!”

            “Feel free to go and we’ll insult you behind your back,” drawled Malacath.

            “If we may focus on the reason for this meeting?” the Agent of Kyne suggested. “I can’t exactly leave my goats unsupervised for too long.”

            “Take a bag of sweet feed when you go,” Sanguine offered. “Your goats are cute little bastards.”

            “Put some in Brynjolf’s pocket the next time he’s up in Ivarstead,” suggested a stern female voice from the darkest corner. “The Nightingales need a good laugh.”

            “So. Martin Septim has been resurrected because Akatosh couldn’t find anyone else to clean up after his brat Alduin,” Sanguine drawled. “We’ve all agreed that we should lend a hand. Hell, I’ve given him the Sanguine Rose. You gonna give him Wabbajack, Aurelia?”

            “No. Dual-wielding staves is a bad idea.” Aurelia shifted in her seat and drank some ale. Excellent as always. “I can’t approach him for any number of reasons.”

            “Not the least of which is that while he’s Martin Septim, this isn’t the Oblivion Crisis and he can’t go back to who he was. Already, he’s changing,” said the Agent of Kyne with more gentleness than Aurelia expected.

            “I know that,” Aurelia said flatly. “I can send cryptic hints and maybe send a few dragons berserk, but…”

            “I will send him locations of Shouts,” Hjalti said grimly. “With the Thalmor destroying my Empire, he’ll need all the power he can get to deal with them.”

            The conversation turned to how each person there could lend some subtle assistance to the Dragonborn and for the most part, Aurelia was relieved. It wasn’t fair what Akatosh had done to Martin yet it couldn’t be changed. He was back and would need help.

            After most of the Daedric Princes and Hjalti had left, the Agent of Kyne lingered, more than human power shining in her turquoise eyes. “Aside from Alduin, the Dragonborn has no destiny, for he writes his own,” she said. “It’s as likely Martin will join the Stormcloaks as it is he’ll retake the Ruby Throne and it’s as likely he’ll do that as he says to Oblivion with it and runs off into the sunset with one who has known and loved him before.”

            Aurelia swallowed her pride and her pain. “I just want him to be happy. He deserves it this time around.”

            The presence of Kyne faded, leaving only Korli standing there and soon even she was gone, returned by Sanguine to Ivarstead. No need to make the poor girl walk from near Helgen after all.

            Aurelia glanced at Sanguine. “Mind if I get shit-faced drunk?” she asked hoarsely.

            The other Prince nodded sympathetically. “Sure thing.”


	11. Vampires

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

Hjaalmarch was, to quote one of the Companions, a weird bog place full of weird bog people. Martin trudged into the town of Morthal, which was the Hold capital and smaller than some villages in Cyrodiil, with mud up to his thighs and cold that had settled permanently into his toes. His new huscarl (bodyguard and gofer) was a beautiful black-haired woman named Lydia, bastard daughter of Balgruuf’s late elder brother Istgeir, who died in the Great War. She might have been sworn to carry his burdens, but Lydia insisted he carry his own damn pack, and was quite emphatic about preferring women despite Balgruuf’s obvious attempts at matchmaking. He told her that was fine by him. It softened her attitude considerably.

            There was an angry mob, complete with torches, demanding the removal of a local wizard outside of a two-storey longhouse decorated with Hjaalmarch’s triskele banners. A house had been burned down and the sole survivor moved in with a new lover the very next day. Attacks of mudcrabs, draugr and something called chaurus had increased. Off the beaten track and seemingly ignored by the Empire, Morthal could fall from the earth and not be missed for years.

            “Ustengrav’s just outside the town,” Jonna the innkeeper told him after he asked about any nearby Greybeard tombs. “There’s been strange lights in the mists and they’re comin’ from the sea, so you can’t blame the Forsworn. Be careful out there. Two people are dead and one is missing.”

            “Strange things do seem to be happening in Morthal,” Martin agreed as he paid for both rooms for a night. “That house at the end…”

            “Hroggar says his wife spilt bear fat on the fire,” Jonna said, pocketing the septims. “Hroggar’s been all slack-jawed around Alva lately and moved into her house the next day.”

            Martin’s eyebrow shot up. “Alva?”

            “The village beauty. She’s been acting strange for the past few months, and now with Hroggar’s family dead…”

            Martin bit his bottom lip. “I am a priest of Akatosh, among other things. Do you have anything like a court wizard I can speak to?”

            “That would be my brother. He’s a priest of Tu’whacca, but all the locals see is someone with a knowledge of Conjuration,” was Jonna’s answer.

            “Ah.” Martin had heard of the necromantic powers of the priests of the Redguard god of death. “Is Alva ever about in daylight?”

            “Funny you should mention it, but no.” Jonna’s mouth tightened. “You think she’s a vampire?”

            “It’s a possibility. I could cast a Restoration spell on her, but the Jarl may take exception to her bursting into flame.”

            “Go speak to Jarl Idgrod. Her family’s part Reacher, so they’re more magical than most.” Jonna returned to wiping down the bar. “I think she’s been hoping for someone neutral to investigate Hroggar’s family’s deaths. You’ll do.”

            Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone was short and fine-boned for a Nord, with iron-dark hair and eyes that saw far too much for Martin’s comfort. “So life has brought you to Morthal and to me,” she said in a scratchy alto. “How may I assist you, Dragonborn?”

            “You know I’m Dragonborn?” Martin asked. He’d left Lydia at the Moorside Inn to find out more on Alva and Hroggar, so the huscarl couldn’t have told the Jarl anything.

            “I know you are named Martin in truth and Northstar by wishful thinking,” Idgrod said mildly. “Twice-living lastborn son of Akatosh who must bind and banish his errant firstborn brother Al-Du-In. Shall I continue?”

            Martin stared at her. “How-?”

            “We live on the edge of what was once Reachfolk territory,” Idgrod said, lounging in her comfortable wooden throne. “I count Hags and Hagravens in my ancestry and all Ravencrones see a little more, a little deeper, a little further. I won’t tell your secret, Martin Septim. It may break the world apart when it needs to be together.”

            “Thank you,” he said fervently. “Now, as a priest of Akatosh and a former mage, I have reason to suspect Alva is a vampire. The village beauty who captivates a widower whose family died suspiciously and is never seen in daylight? That, forgive me, is most suspicious.”

            “You may have seen truly and it would explain much. But I will not arrest someone on mere suspicion.” Idgrod nodded to her husband and Steward Aslfur, who wrote something on a piece of paper before sealing it with a pewter seal. “This gives you _limited_ authority to investigate. You may sift through the ashes of Hroggar’s house, search Alva’s and consult with Falion, but unless your life is in direct danger, you may not use violence. I would have answers, not corpses.”

            Well, Martin hadn’t planned on investigating anything, but he supposed he could spare a day. Letting a vampire get a foothold into a place like this would be bad. It could be years before anyone realised what was going on. “May I bring my huscarl along? Lydia’s got a keen eye.”

            “You may, if you can pry her away from my daughter,” Idgrod said with a grin.

            Martin did, in fact, have to pry Lydia from the very pretty Idgrod the Younger. Only the promise that she could remain in Morthal while he dared Ustengrav after the investigation mollified the young Nord. “We may need to escort Joric back to Whiterun when we leave,” she said as they walked up to the burned ruins, sunset a scarlet glory. “His powers are getting stronger by the day. Idgrod pays for her visions with fits every month or so; Joric is having them weekly and things are being set on fire. Only Danica Pure-Spring could help him now.”

            “Not Korli?” Martin asked.

            “She’s a fine priestess but a poor healer unless it’s simples,” Lydia answered. “Besides, Danica tends the people and Korli the wild places. They’re essentially equals, but they serve in different spheres.”

            “Ah.”

            The ashes didn’t say much but the ghost of a little big-eyed girl named Helgi did. She invited them to find her in the graveyard, but to be aware of the other woman who wanted to play hide and seek. That woman turned out to be Laelette, the missing wife of someone named Thonnir, and a vampire. When she saw Martin and Lydia by the girl’s coffin, she went feral, and they had no choice but to kill her. Of course, Thonnir turned up and was inconsolable, hand going to his axe. Martin was forced to use a Calm spell on him and pull back Laelette’s lips to show the fangs of a vampire.

            “By the Nine,” breathed the lumberjack. “Alva said that, that, she’d gone to join the Stormcloaks.”

            “Alva, we think, is the master vampire,” Martin said, rising to his feet and dusting off his pants. “We will confront her around noon tomorrow. Her power will be weakest and mine strongest then.”

            “He’s a priest of Akatosh,” Lydia explained, jerking her thumb at Martin.

            “I… Yes, of course.” Thonnir took a deep shaky breath. “I want to be there.”

            “Of course.”

            Martin woke up around mid-morning and when he came out into the inn’s taproom, Thonnir was already waiting there. “I want to talk to Falion first,” Martin said, holding up his hand. “His priestly order specialises in dealing with the undead.”

            “He’s a necromancer,” Thonnir said flatly.

            “The priests of Tu’whacca practice limited necromancy, yes,” Martin said as he went to wake Lydia. “It’s mostly to lay the dead to rest or to get answers from a spirit.”

            “Huh?”

            “Never mind. I just think he might have an idea or two on how to deal with a vampire.”

            Falion was a medium-sized Redguard in a plain brown robe who regarded Martin with a wry look. “Dragonborn,” he greeted quietly. “How may I help you? No, raising a dead dragon isn’t an option.”

            “We think Alva may be a vampire. Laelette was turned and-“

            The priest lost his amused expression. “Let’s go. I’ll take responsibility.”

            Hroggar was working at the lumber mill when Falion, Martin, Lydia and a local tough named Benor arrived at Alva’s cottage. When she didn’t open the door at his knock, Falion touched it and used an Unlock spell. Inside seemed normal enough but it was in the cellar that Alva rested.

            “Why do vampires always use coffins?” Lydia asked as they beheld the open casket with the palely beautiful Alva, clad in a low-cut dress, laid out inside.

            “Because they are spiritually dead,” Falion answered. “So… questioning or execution?”

            “That looks important.” Benor reached out to grab a leather-bound journal.

            Alva’s eyes opened, blazing amber, and she slowly began to rise.

            Martin and Falion cast in unison and the cellar was filled with blinding sun-bright light.

            Two hours later, Idgrod was reading the ash-smudged journal as Lami tended to the sunburns all four would-be vampire hunters collected. Sun’s Fire wasn’t directly harmful to the living, but it _did_ leave them red as cooked mudcrabs. Lami’s herbal salve soothed the skin wonderfully.

            “Morvath,” Idgrod finally said. “A master vampire, planning our demise, just outside of Morthal.”

            She struggled to rise, but Aslfur put his hand on his shoulder. “Falion, could you and Martin deal with an entire coven of vampires?”

            “Give us some muscle and we’ll be fine,” Falion assured him. “Ideally, we would attack during the day when they’re weakest.”

            Idgrod shook her head. “No, we dare not wait. He is warned. Go now.”

            The thralls weren’t the problem, though Martin regretted killing them. It was the vampires, six or so, who were scattered in the cave complex within an hour’s walk of the town. Most of them were older than fledglings and Morvath was a true master vampire. Even with repeatedly using Restoration spells, it took both Martin and Falion to defeat him, and neither walked away unscathed. Benor would never walk anywhere again, for he had died and been raised by Morvath in the battle.

            Lydia made everyone drink cure disease potions before they returned to Morthal. It was a dark night and the constant mist only made Hjaalmarch seem spookier than it was. But Jonna was waiting for them, with soup and mead. Martin might have drunken five or six tankards to drive away the horrors of the vampire lair.

            His dreams were troubled that night.


	12. The Orcs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and corpses.

 

Ustengrav was infested with necromancers. And draugr. For a change of pace, there were some skeletons and spiders. The fire-traps triggered by foot were a nice addition. Whirlwind Sprint nearly got him flattened by a descending spike-bottom gate. Being greeted by rising dragon-headed statues as he strode towards the resting place of Jurgen Windcaller did not make up for all the previous fun and games. Finding a letter in place of Jurgen’s horn just about made Martin’s day.

            “Dragonborn -- I need to speak to you. Urgently. Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood, and I'll meet you. -- A friend.”

            Martin swore vociferously, his voice echoing across the chamber. Then he found the hidden tunnel that led him to the tomb’s main passage, exited the tomb, and allowed himself a single heartfelt shriek of pure rage. Two birds fell from the sky at the force of it; being hawks, he plucked their feathers for use in alchemical preparations. Maybe Korli would appreciate them.

            It was evening by the time he returned to Morthal and the Moorside Inn. Walking into a taproom where an Orc was singing something in an off-key baritone was enough for him to approach Jonna, hand over a couple dozen septims and ask her to rent out their rooms for another night on the condition that he just _shut up_.

            “Lurbuk!” Jonna yelled across the room. “Martin here wants you to shut up. He’s the one who killed a bunch of vampires yesterday and saved Morthal.”

            “I am the greatest bard to have trained at the College,” Lurbuk said with his chest puffed out.

            “Remind me to never go to the College then, because I’d hate to hear the worst,” Martin muttered under his breath.

            “Lurbuk. It’s late. Just please go to bed,” Jonna said with a sigh.

            Lydia emerged from the room she’d rented, looking a little flustered. “How’d Ustengrav go?” she asked, joining Martin at his table as a slim, lovely young woman with a strong resemblance to Idgrod slipped out of the taproom with a smile.

            “I fought my way through necromancers, draugr and traps only to find someone has stolen the Horn,” Martin said through gritted teeth. “Apparently I must go to Riverwood and hire an attic room at the Sleeping Giant.”

            “The Sleeping Giant doesn’t _have_ an attic room,” Lydia said flatly. “It’s got a secret cellar – Delphine’s not as subtle as she thinks she is – but no attic room.”

            Delphine. The Blade who’d slept with both his great-grandsons. Martin buried his head in his hands and growled frustratedly. This was getting beyond a joke.

            Lurbuk started singing again. Martin turned around in his seat and yelled, “SHUT UP!”

            The force of it slammed the Orc into the wall with an ugly crunch, splintering his lute and leaving him dazed.

            “Shit,” Lydia said. “You’re going to have to pay a fine for assault and maybe his healer’s bills.”

            Jarl Idgrod was sitting in her throne as Lydia and Martin entered Highmoon Hall. Behind them, Aslfur and her huscarl Gorm carried a bleeding groaning Lurbuk between them.

            “’Speak only in true need’,” Idgrod said, stirring slightly. “That is the Way of the Voice, yes?”

            “Yes,” Martin admitted with a flush. “I… did not realise that a simple yell would do so much damage.”

            “Words are weapons. In your case, they can literally kill. Have you ever wondered why the Greybeards are gagged when they leave High Hrothgar?”

            “I… no.” He didn’t even know.

            “Because the more powerful the Voice, the more dangerous speech becomes.” Idgrod steepled her fingers in her lap. “Now, I recognise you’ve had a hard two days, Martin Northstar. That’s why you’ll only be fined for assault and the cost of a good healing potion. Two hundred septims to my husband before you leave Morthal.”

            Lydia, grumbling, handed over a generous purse of coin. “Lurbuk wouldn’t shut up after we asked him to.”

            “That is no excuse, Lydia Istgeirsdottir,” Idgrod answered severely. “The Dragonborn is not above the laws of the land and his Voice can kill.”

            She leaned back in her throne, waving dismissively. “You may go now.”

            Martin and Lydia awoke just before dawn. Jonna made them up a packed lunch of smoked salmon, sourdough bread and crumbling cheese. “Lurbuk’s battered, but he should live,” she cheerfully assured them.

            “What if he doesn’t?” Martin asked. He didn’t know if Nords recognised manslaughter as a crime, but in Cyrodiil it carried a ten-year jail sentence.

            “Then you get a summons from Jarl Idgrod demanding you come to Morthal and pay a thousand septims in wergild, two thirds of which will go to his family, the Orcs of Dushnikh Yal,” Jonna answered.

            “I think I will pay the wergild now,” Martin said softly. “I have a bad feeling about all this… and I did lose control of my Akatosh-given gifts.”

            Aslfur greeted them in Highmoon Hall’s main room. “Lurbuk died last night,” the Steward said without preamble. “Falion’s preparing the body and wants to talk to you.”

            Martin pressed a purse containing a thousand septims into his hand. “I killed him-“

            “Talk to Falion.”

            Lurbuk was laid out on a stone slab in a shack behind Falion’s house. The priest of Tu’whacca had set up a shrine dedicated to his god and cast some potent anti-necromancy Wards on the building, carved into the wooden lintel. “Welcome to the House of Tu’whacca,” Falion greeted pleasantly. “Or as much of one as can exist in Skyrim. Morthal has no Hall of the Dead, so we had to improvise.”

            “I killed him,” Martin said heavily, looking at Lurbuk’s battered, bruised body.

            “Actually, you didn’t. Break a couple ribs and fracture his arm? Yes. Kill him? No.” Falion rolled Lurbuk over and pulled back the long hair to reveal a narrow wound at the base of the skull. “Very fine poisoned stiletto. In between the time Lami and Jorgen left Lurbuk in their cottage to sleep off the healing potion and their return from the inn, someone slipped inside and killed him.”

            Lydia lifted her chin. “Brotherhood?”

            “It’s the strongest possibility. They have a vampiric alchemist who’s one of the finest in Tamriel.” Falion set Lurbuk’s body to rights again on the slab. “Lurbuk’s father is the Chief of Dushnikh Yal. They weren’t close, but Burguk might take this personally.”

            “Orcs are loyal to their kin, even the bad ones,” Martin said softly, remembering Agol and his love for his Nord daughter Aurelia.

            “Indeed.” Falion washed his hands and dried them. “You paying wergild will earn their respect, even if you weren’t the one to kill him. Two of Burguk’s boys will be in Morthal to collect his body in a day or so. I suggest waiting around to deliver a personal apology.”

            Jonna gave them their rooms for another two days without charge, though they still had to pay for food and mead. Martin seethed at the delay, but he had in part brought this about, and so he waited. Lydia spent most of her time with Idgrod, with whom she seemed close.

            Two days later, an Orc in heavy steel armour much like Lydia’s arrived, accompanied by another male as grizzled as he but far less muscular. Their names were Ghorbash the Iron-Hand and Oglub, both of them brothers to Chief Burguk. “Where’s Lurbuk?” the former demanded.

            “The House of Tu’whacca,” retorted Jonna tartly. “He’s been prepared and embalmed for the trip back to Dushnikh Yal.”

            Martin rose from his feet. “May your prey be fresh and your blades strong,” he greeted formally.

            “Civilised behaviour from a lowlander! Truly, this must be the end of the world that the Nords talk about,” Ghorbash drawled with a grin. “Do you have a name, Cyrod?”

            “Martin Northstar, the Last Dragonborn,” was Martin’s soft reply. “I… was not the one who killed Lurbuk, but I lost my temper and used my Voice on him, and that put him in a place where he was murdered. I paid wergild to Aslfur by the laws of the Nords, but if you require further blood-price for Dushnikh Yal, I will pay it.”

            Ghorbash and Oglub exchanged glances. “We better see Lurbuk’s body first.”

            Falion had embalmed and wrapped the corpse in linen, but the Orcs simply cut away the wrappings. “A narrow stiletto did the deed,” the Redguard reported to Ghorbash. “We think it was the Brotherhood, though as to why they’d go to all this effort to kill an Orcish bard…”

            “Lurbuk had no friends in the strongholds,” Ghorbash said grimly. “Among other things, he tried to seduce his father’s wife Shel, and so he was exiled.”

            “I can believe that,” Falion agreed. “So, will you be taking the body back to Dushnikh Yal?”

            “Nah, we’ll dump him in the bog,” Oglub said cheerfully. “Ghorbash just wanted an excuse to leave the stronghold for a few days and I wanted a break from mining.”

            “I suggest burying it in the graveyard. I’ve Warded it against necromancers.”

            Ghorbash shrugged. “Okay. You’re the priest… or whatever.”

            Martin helped them dig the grave just up past Helgi’s reinterred coffin. “You remind me of my wife’s Orcish relatives,” he said as they lowered the body into the hole. “The gro-Mashogs.”

            “That explains your good manners,” Ghorbash said approvingly. “The men sometimes marry non-Orc women and their chief lets them stay around the stronghold. A little surprised one of the daughters married out, though.”

            “Her mother was a Nord and the clan raised her,” Martin explained. He needed to remember that the gro-Mashogs he knew were two centuries dead.

            Ghorbash’s mouth tightened. “Oglub, go get us some mead. Lurbuk’s as much a pain in the ass in death as he was in life.”

            “Sure thing. I’ll bring some meat too.” The older Orc waved good-naturedly and trotted down the hill.

            “There’s only one Cyrod I know of who was with a gra-Mashog Nord woman,” Ghorbash said, leaning on his shovel and studying Martin with keen eyes. “Either you’ve found a way to come back from the dead or you’re the biggest bullshitter I’ve ever had the misfortune to encounter.”

            “Would you say I’m insane if I said that I was really Martin Septim?” Martin asked carefully. “Akatosh… returned me to the mortal plane to face Alduin World-Eater. I know it sounds crazy-“

            “I was wondering if the Bastion of the Berserkers had somehow brought you back, honestly,” Ghorbash answered. “My mother was a gra-Mashog and taught me a lot of her stronghold’s stories. None of them mentioned you being married to Aurelia Northstar, though.”

            “I had to smash the Amulet of Kings on the Sublime Brazier,” Martin told him. “Aurelia couldn’t hold off Mehrunes Dagon forever and…”

            “It’s _true_ she went one on one with Dagon himself?” Ghorbash asked in shock.

            “Yes. She punched him in the toe and he hopped. We ran in under his feet and…” Martin shuddered.

            Ghorbash patted him on the shoulder. “It’s okay. You really did love her, didn’t you?”

            “Part of me still does,” Martin admitted softly. “Dagon took that away from us and took the Empire away from our son.”

            “Nah, that was the Elder Council. After you, uh, left, Agol and his family, with some help from Marius and Sidgara, managed to smuggle out Aurelia and Julius Martin. Ten years after Aurelia left Julius Martin with the gro-Mashogs, she returned as the Madgoddess and made a pact with Hircine and Malacath to break up Mehrunes’ Razor. Ever since, the gro-Mashogs have been blessed as berserkers who can tear apart armoured Dremora with their bare hands.”

            Ghorbash returned to shovelling dirt on Lurbuk’s body. “There’s a few who claim Aurelia gra-Mashog is now Malacath’s wife, but they tend to get smacked down pretty hard by the gro-Mashogs or the wisewomen. But she’s respected among the strongholds as an ally of Malacath’s and kin to the Orcs.”

            Martin nodded, blinking back tears. Orcs despised emotional weakness. “Do you know what happened to Julius Martin?”

            “He left Cracked Tusk Keep at the age of twenty, trained a bit with Sidgara’s family, and then became a Companion of Jorrvaskr _and_ a member of the College of Winterhold. They lost track of him around the age of fifty or sixty, and any further communication with the Aurelii was rebuffed on their part.” Ghorbash shook his head. “Your grandson Arius was mad, and not in a good way. I served with Rustem in the Legion; he’s a good fighter but there’s something dark and hungry about him. Irkand was apparently a scary bastard.”

            Martin started to push dirt on Lurbuk’s grave. “Korli?”

            “Wait, the Wind of Kyne is a bloody Aurelii?” Ghorbash blurted.

            “She’s my great-great-granddaughter.” Martin sighed. “Irkand’s a good man, I think. I haven’t run into Rustem yet.”

            “I wouldn’t rush it. I heard he joined the Redguard equivalent of the Dark Brotherhood.” Ghorbash patted some dirt on the grave. “So, what’s the ‘official’ story? I can tell you’re Martin Septim, but I bet you haven’t told everyone.”

            “Officially, I’m a bastard of Arius Aurelius,” Martin told him. “Someone made the connection and I, ah, ran with it.”

            “I’ll go down to Cracked Tusk Keep and let Tarlak know. He’s my second cousin,” Ghorbash promised. “They’ll put it out that there’s a blue-eyed Cyrod who married one of their non-Orc daughters. They’ll have a name for you. Hell, maybe she’ll be called Aurelia.”

            Martin stopped working. “Why are you helping me?”

            “You’ve proven yourself honourable. You didn’t have to take responsibility for Lurbuk’s injuries, but you did. Agol always said you were a good man to Orcs. You offered to pay blood-price.” Ghorbash patted down the last of the dirt. “And maybe the fact that a dragon decimated Largashbur in the Rift and none of us can kill those fucking lizards has something to do with it.”

            “I’m sorry,” Martin said softly.

            “Why? Unless you can fly, no way you could have gotten there in time. The survivors made it to Riften.” Ghorbash sighed gustily. “Just kick the ass of the dragons. That can be your blood-price for Lurbuk.”

            “I will,” Martin promised. “Thank you, Ghorbash. It’s good to know there’s someone I can be truthful with.”

            The Iron-Hand tapped his chin. “I know you got that pretty little Nord girl as your huscarl, but I served in the Legion during the Great War. If you want, I’ll send Oglub back with Lurbuk’s belongings, head down to Cracked Tusk Keep and tell Tarlak what’s going on, and meet you at Whiterun. I’m getting on a bit and Malacath despises Orcs who cling to their lives. If it’s my fate to die by dragon, it will be a good death.”

            Martin blinked. “I could use some help. But I’m barely able to afford covering for Lydia.”

            Ghorbash chuckled. “Orc sellswords are a septim a dozen. Truth be told, while I’m grateful Burguk welcomed me home, life in the stronghold is getting a little tedious. At home, I can look forward to working in the mines. Here, I can be a warrior once more.”

            “As you wish. We run into enough bandits that our trips pay for themselves.” Martin found a smile. “Our first trip will be to Riverwood. A Blade stole the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller to force me to make contact with her. I’m… not happy, not after going through all the trials of Ustengrav. I want to have words and I won’t have to put Lydia in an awkward position by having her around as I demand answers from one of her uncle’s landowning franklins.”

            Ghorbash grinned. “Sounds like fun.”


	13. The Cellar Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Y’all can thank FlowingLily for the cellar room joke.

 

Lydia was happy to remain in Whiterun to sell off their loot, buy the house named Breezehome, and refurbish it as necessary while Ghorbash and Martin went up to Riverwood to confront Delphine. The Dragonborn very carefully kept his tone low and calm as he rehearsed his speech on the way, much to Ghorbash’s amusement. It would do no good to accidentally kill one of the last Blades.

            At the top of the waterfall before the bridge to Riverwood, he spotted several familiar-looking goats, their wool growing back, nibbling grass on the island by the lumber mill. “Thank the Nine,” he said in relief. Korli could surely keep everything in check. If not, she could at least keep Delphine from getting hurt.

            The Sleeping Giant was a rustic inn. A little too rustic, perhaps, as the innkeeper’s surliness was surely a front. Korli was there, clad in a simple cream wool robe trimmed with hawk feathers, a turquoise-pommelled tanto thrust into a wide blue sash. “No Shouting,” she advised on his entrance.

            “No Shouting,” he agreed.

            Delphine emerged from one of the rooms. “What brings you to the Sleeping Giant?” she asked in the poorest attempt at a rural Nord accent he’d ever heard.

            “I want to hire the cellar room,” Martin said clearly. She knew who he was and he knew what she was.

            “You mean the attic room, right?” Delphine asked pointedly.

            “Oh no, I want the cellar room,” Martin told her. “I mean, you were going to drag me down there anyway.”

            “Shoulda let him Shout at her,” the innkeep remarked to Korli.

            “Nah,” she said with a grin. “This is more fun.”

            “So this is a Blade,” Ghorbash observed. “She doesn’t look like much.”

            Delphine’s mouth tightened. “What in Oblivion do you think you’re doing, breaking cover like this?”

            “Well, given you broke into Ustengrav and stole the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, I figured you could stand to be reminded the Dragonborn isn’t your lackey,” Martin said mildly.

            “You did _what_?” Korli demanded of Delphine with a yelp.

            “I had to make formal contact _somehow_ ,” Delphine said defensively. “Besides, how could I know that the Thalmor didn’t have their own trap? The Greybeards are so senile that they’d never notice a mammoth wandering around, let alone a Thalmor assassin.”

            “I would pay a great deal of money to hear you say that to Arngeir,” Korli said sardonically. “I’ll scrape what’s left into a bucket and give it a decent burial.”

            Ghorbash snickered. “I like you.”

            Martin jerked his chin down towards the floor. “The rest of this conversation can continue in the cellar.”

            With Ghorbash, Delphine and Korli in the cramped space, Martin almost considered asking them to breathe in shifts as they surrounded a map of dragon burials on the table. “Dragons aren’t just returning, someone’s bringing them back,” Delphine said. “The next one is in Kynesgrove.”

            “Sahloknir,” Korli said. “Phantom-Sky-Hunt. Jorg Helmbolg slew him in the First Era.”

            “Kind of you to assist us,” Delphine muttered under her breath.

            Korli smiled and it was a feral expression. “I assist the Dragonborn, Delphine, by Kyne’s orders. The gods of both Left and Right Hands are involved in this, for few want Nirn to be destroyed.”

            “Left and Right Hands?” Martin murmured to Ghorbash.

            “Your friend’s been trained by Reachfolk – Forsworn,” the Orc muttered in response. “For the most part, the Right-Hand Gods are the Aedra, and the Left-Hand ones are the Daedra. But it’s a bit more complicated than that – in their theology, Malacath is a Right-Hand god because He’s reasonably benevolent and Talos is a Left-Hand God because, well, he conquered the Reach.”

            “That’s… interesting.” Martin took a deep breath and released it slowly. “So, what now?”

            “We go to Kynesgrove and kill us a dragon.” Delphine looked far too eager for Martin’s comfort.

            While she was pulling armour in her bedroom upstairs, Korli gave Martin a frank look. “I know Sanguine told you this but this time around, aside from Alduin, your destiny is your own. You answer to no Elder Council, no Jauffre, no Ralinde or no Marius now. Only to your conscience.”

            “Is that wise?” Martin asked. “I… lost my temper twice. Once when I found out that Delphine had stolen the Horn and then when an Orc bard wouldn’t shut up after I asked him to. Both times my raised Voice killed or hurt something.”

            “It was the Brotherhood who did Lurbuk in,” Ghorbash growled. “But since Martin knocked him on his ass, he feels bad about it.”

            “The Brotherhood’s been very busy lately,” Korli said dryly. “Some of the Imperial chickens are coming home to roost.”

            “How much do you know?” Martin asked.

            “More than I wish, less than I like,” the priestess sighed. “I can’t just gird up and march alongside you to fight dragons. Kyne has a lot of pots on the boil and I need the freedom to tend them all. Sometimes that means I learn a few things – and what I don’t know, Irkand usually does.”

            “Korli is a High Priestess, maybe even an Agent, of Kynareth,” Martin told the slightly confused Ghorbash. “In Orcish terms, she’s a wisewoman who serves the Divine.”

            “I’m a goatherd who happens to serve Kyne,” Korli corrected. “I was trained in the old ways of the Greybeards, the Reachfolk and the coastal Nords. I’m nothing so _formal_ as an Imperial-recognised priestess of Kynareth.”

            She pushed away from the desk. “After Sahloknir’s arse has been kicked, Delphine will want you to try and infiltrate one of Ambassador Elenwen’s infamous parties to acquire whatever the Thalmor know on dragons. It’s up to you whether or not you do it… But if you do, you’ll officially be on her shit list. You need to decide if it’s worth it.”

            “Do you know what will happen if I don’t?” Martin asked softly.

            “You better get your arse to Markarth then. There’s someone you need to meet again.” Korli wiped her hands down her robe. “I can’t say more than that. Kyne doesn’t exactly grant oracular powers to Her people.”

            “Precognition is overrated,” Martin muttered.

            “Or to quote Aurelia: ‘Heroic fates lead to heroic funerals’,” Korli agreed dryly.

            Martin laugh-sobbed. “She would have said that.”

            Then his eyes narrowed. “You know?”

            “Yeah. Thank Kyne I don’t serve Akatosh. Dead is dead and should stay dead.” Korli stepped towards the stairs. “Just remember, you control your fate now, but you need to meet your old friend in Markarth or Elenwen’s party.”

            She was gone before he could ask any more questions.


	14. Kynesgrove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

 

“There’s a dragon up there!”

            “Yeah, we noticed,” Helga Hard-Heart said under her breath. Bjarni, Egil and a small patrol of Stormcloaks had been collecting the mine-tithe from Kynesgrove when the black dragon from Helgen arrived to hover over the dragon mound on the hill. According to what he’d heard, it was Alduin World-Eater himself.

            “Alright!” Ralof said crisply. “That’s the big black bastard that attacked Helgen. Anything we do will just bounce off his hide, so our goal is to-“

            “Get out of the way!” snapped a blonde Breton with a dai-katana, accompanied by Brother Martin, Balgruuf’s niece Lydia, and a tough, hard-bitten Orc in fine steel armour.

            “Bjarni, Ralof,” greeted Martin, giving the blonde a wry glance. “Unless your friends are veterans of Helgen, they would do better to help evacuate everyone to the Windhelm stables.”

            “See to it, Egil,” Bjarni ordered his little brother. “This is the Martin I told you about from Helgen.”

            “The Dragonborn,” Egil responded, nodding to Martin respectfully. “And the Aurelii.”

            “I’m not Arius, Rustem or Irkand,” Martin said softly. “But we have a dragon to deal with.”

            Egil nodded again, this time more brusquely, and began to give orders to their patrol. Bjarni drew his axe and Ralof his warhammer. They’d survived Helgen.

            “Alduin was hunting you at Helgen,” Ralof drawled as they headed up to the hill where Alduin hovered, speaking dark and terrible things in Dovahzul.

            “I know.” Martin eyed Alduin. “It is not yet time for him and I. But Sahloknir…”

            “Wait, you knew you were _Dragonborn_ at Helgen?” Bjarni demanded.

            “Yes,” Martin admitted calmly. “Priest of Akatosh, remember?”

            Alduin had finished speaking his incantation by the time they made the hill and the dragon-mound exploded. Martin threw up a Ward that deflected most of the debris and the dragon laughed.

            “Ni nu zeymahi!” Alduin mocked as he flew away, the skeleton of Sahloknir moving of its own accord, fire becoming flesh around it.

            “Niid, ni nu, zeymahi,” Martin said softly. “But soon, my wayward brother.”

            “Well, that isn’t weird or nothing,” muttered Helga.

            Ralof closed in and began hacking at Sahloknir even as fire became flesh. Martin swung a staff with a thorny rose and a Dremora in Daedric plate appeared to flank the dragon, two Flame Atronachs appearing at a distance to throw fire.

            “Good thing Egil’s not here,” Helga observed as she nocked, drew and fired an arrow.

            The blonde Breton was good with a dai-katana, the Orc was definitely a veteran, and even Lydia gave a good account of herself. Sahloknir was soon overwhelmed, crying out in despair and dying shortly after. His flesh became fire once more, fire that was sucked in by Martin’s sturdy form until nothing but bleached bones were left.

            “Holy shit,” Helga breathed. “He _is_ Dragonborn.”

            “Well, I’ll be damned,” the Orc said, sounding impressed. “You really can kill those beasts permanently.”

            “Yes,” Martin said, lifting blue eyes with pupils that flashed red-green like a predator’s. “Though even when you are prepared, it is a… startling experience. I wish I could persuade the dragons to leave humanity alone but while Alduin is loose, it won’t happen.”

            “All dragons need to die,” the Breton said flatly.

            “No. Just those who will not change.” Martin raised an eyebrow at her. “As I recall, it is the Dragonborn who gives the Blades their orders, not the other way around.”

            “You’re intent on getting me killed, aren’t you?” she demanded.

            “If I truly wanted to do that, I’d let Sigdrifa Stormsword know that Delphine Revanche was in Eastmarch,” Martin said sardonically.

            “Sweet Talos,” Ralof swore under his breath. “This will be interesting.”

            Martin folded his arms. “Ghorbash, will you be alright with staying here with Delphine to investigate the dragon’s skeleton and mound?”

            The Orc nodded. “Sure. I’ll keep her out of trouble.”

            Delphine scowled at Ghorbash. “I’m not incompetent, you know.”

            “No, you just meddle in things you shouldn’t,” Ghorbash said dryly.

            “Where are we going?” Lydia asked Martin.

            “Since we’re close to Windhelm, it would be courteous to visit Ulfric,” was the priest’s calm reply.

            Bjarni grinned at Ralof. Did Martin understand what the mere presence of the Dragonborn in Windhelm would do for the Stormcloak cause?

            “You do know that will cause a political shitstorm, right?” Lydia said slowly. “You’re a Thane of Whiterun. Whiterun, which is neutral in the civil war.”

            Martin sighed. “Ulfric is also a Battle-Tongue. I… can’t exactly discuss the ethics of using the Thu’um in battle with Arngeir, particularly after Morthal.”

            “What ethics? It’s a weapon, use it,” Delphine said curtly.

            “If I raise my Voice, even in wordless rage, I can hurt or even kill with it,” Martin said grimly. “I killed two hawks and broke an Orc’s bones at Morthal.”

            Ghorbash sighed. “You paid blood-price for Lurbuk, Martin. Stop beating yourself up over it.”

            “Lurbuk? Isn’t he Skyrim’s worst bard?” Ralof asked.

            “He was,” Martin said with a sigh. “While he was sleeping off a healing draught, the Dark Brotherhood killed him.”

            “Which improved the quality of Skyrim’s bards considerably,” Lydia said dryly. “He was terrible.”

            “Oh, I’ve heard him,” Ralof said fervently. “Sorry, Ghorbash, but… I’m tempted to send a thank you note to the Dark Brotherhood.”

            “Pfft, no skin off my back. He was an embarrassment to the stronghold.” Ghorbash paused. “More because he tried to seduce his father’s third wife than the music, though.”

            “If he sang love songs for her, she’d have had no trouble remaining loyal to her husband,” Ralof said. “I have better luck with serenading a woman, and Bjarni once told me my voice sounds like a constipated horker.”

            Bjarni snickered. “I’m guessing Lurbuk sounded more like the horker’s arse-end?”

            “That would be an insult to horker farts,” Lydia said fervently.

            Martin wore the face of priestly disapproval. “If we’re done making fun of a murdered man, I would like to reach Windhelm by sunset.”

            Ghorbash snickered. “Yeah, sure. We’ll preserve the dragon’s skull for you.”

            They were halfway to the stables when Bjarni nudged Ralof’s side. “Why would that Blade get killed by my mother?” he muttered as Martin strode ahead.

            “Did your mother ever mention the years she spent in Bruma?” Ralof asked in reply.

            “Not much. She said that she’d been married before and had a child who died at Cloud Ruler.”

            “Something like that. The child didn’t die, but she was an adult when we found that out. For the sake of our sanity, she doesn’t go much further into Eastmarch than Eldergleam Sanctuary.” Ralof released an explosive sigh. “Your mother was married to a Redguard Blade – one of the Aurelii. She and Rustem really didn’t get on, but his da wouldn’t let them divorce, so Rustem took up with Delphine as a means of forcing the issue. But the Great War happened and Cloud Ruler fell, so they all just decided to pretend it never happened.”

            “Delphine left my brother Irkand for my other brother Rustem,” Martin said over his shoulder. “I’ve met Irkand. He’s a fairly decent man for someone living in the Rift. Your sister is an extraordinary woman, one whose counsel I value dearly.”

            “Korli Wind-of-Kyne,” Ralof said before Bjarni could open his mouth. “As I said, your mother thought her dead for many years when in fact one of the Blades had smuggled her out a few weeks prior to the Temple’s fall. When we found out, you were fostered with the Grey-Manes in Whiterun and Egil was with the Vigilants. There’s no love lost between the Stormsword and the Wind-of-Kyne, so they just avoid each other as much as possible.”

            “She’s a Tongue like your father, but one who tends to follow the Way of the Voice more strictly,” Martin agreed. “Though she’s argued with Arngeir over it too.”

            Everyone knew about Korli Wind-of-Kyne and while jokes were made about her goats, it was also recognised that she was truly touched by the Mother of Men. The story of the Thief chased back to Riften by goats was still told five years after the fact.

            “No one bothered to tell me,” Bjarni said flatly. “Or Egil.”

            Ralof shrugged. “I honestly thought you knew. I’m sorry.”

            “You didn’t know.” Bjarni sighed. “Mother could have said _something_.”

            “I don’t think they consider each other mother and daughter,” Martin said quietly. “Perhaps, given their strong devotion to their respective gods, that’s for the best. Korli is a protector of the wild places and your mother serves the conquering aspects of Talos. They would clash constantly.”

            “Korli doesn’t really respect authority at all,” Lydia noted. “She told Uncle Balgruuf she’d feed his children to a dragon before her goats.”

            “Not to be rude, Lydia, but have you ever paid attention to those three little monsters?” Bjarni pointed out. “Egil and I pray every night neither of us has to marry Dagny.”

            “Feeding them to a dragon is excessive,” Lydia said stiffly.

            “Yes. No innocent dragon deserves that kind of bellyache.”

            “Bjarni!” Martin looked torn between horror and hilarity.

            Egil was waiting for them at the stables. “Is it dead?” he asked calmly.

            “Yes. Ghorbash and a Blade are examining the bones for me,” Martin answered. “I would, if possible, like to speak to your father. He’s the only Battle-Tongue I know and I have questions around the ethics of using the Thu’um.”

            Egil shrugged. “My father uses it freely in combat. In the heat of war, there are no rules. Even Stendarr concedes that.”

            “What happened to Torygg wasn’t in the heat of war,” Lydia told him. “Ulfric Shouted him down and ran him through.”

            “Yes. I don’t agree with it myself. Father makes the argument that he showed how weak the Imperial-loyal Jarls were.” Egil sighed. “But in the eyes of Stendarr, it was murder.”

            “I think the world has become cruel since the rise of the Thalmor,” Martin said quietly. “It is a fine line between pragmatism and ruthlessness.”

            “The Thalmor taught my father cruelty and he has passed it on,” Egil said simply. “Even Talos had to learn mercy from Stendarr.”

            They were let through the gates. Rolff and Angrenor were abusing Suvaris Atheron again. “Excuse me,” Bjarni said quietly, “I need to remind my father’s huscarl’s brother that Dunmer are free citizens of Windhelm.”

            “If it isn’t Bjarni the elf-lover,” sneered Rolff as he neared.

            “Well, given the choice between your company and hers, I’d much prefer the latter,” Bjarni drawled, removing his gauntlets and tucking them into his belt. “How many teeth do you need to spit before I make it clear such behaviour is unacceptable?”

            “She’s an Imperial spy!” spat Rolff.

            “That’s ridiculous. I despise the Empire almost as much as I despise you,” Suvaris shot back. “But you Nords have made it abundantly clear you don’t consider us part of Skyrim!”

            “You should go back to Morrowind,” Angrenor retorted.

            “How about you go back to Atmora?” Suvaris asked. “I mean, neither of us are truly native to Skyrim.”

            “She has a point,” Bjarni conceded. “Now, are you going to shut up or will I have to kick your arse _again_?”

            Angrenor held up his hands. “I’m goin’, I’m goin’.”

            “Rolff?” Bjarni asked, cracking his knuckles.

            “I’m going to tell your father about this!” grumbled the drunk as he backed away.

            “Then I hope you run like a sabre cat, because I’ll be at the Palace before you.”

            Rolff spat something obscene and entered Candlehearth Hall.

            “I appreciate this, Bjarni, but you make no friends by defending us,” Suvaris said with a sigh. “The Thanes already don’t like you very much.”

            “I don’t want friends like Rolff. Even Galmar thinks he’s an idiot.” Bjarni sighed and shook his head. “I know the Dunmer have as many reasons to hate the Thalmor as we Nords do.”

            “There’s too much blood on both sides, I think, for us to be more than allies of convenience,” Suvaris told him. “But may Azura’s prophecy guide you to good fortune, Bjarni Ulfricsson. You are too good for this city.”

            She walked away and Bjarni sighed again.

            “I see the political situation is more complex than I suspected,” Martin said softly.

            Egil laughed humourlessly. “Understatement of the Fourth Era.”


	15. The Palace of the Kings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

Martin had to concede that the Great Hall of Windhelm’s Palace of the Kings was impressive, even to Cyrod eyes. Four times the height of the hulking Bjarni, it could easily fit a hundred people, and even the brazier-flanked throne on which Ulfric slouched was intimidating. His grandfather had always said the Nords were lesser in stature than the Atmorani of old, though still greater than all other men, and in this hall Martin could well believe it. Ulfric, wearing a heavy bearskin cloak and robes of light chainmail, almost filled the room on his own. Sigdrifa, clad in the carved totemic armour that was like and unlike Sidgara’s, stood by his side and filled the rest.

            “Martin Northstar, the Last Dragonborn, prophesised Bane of Alduin, great-grandson of Aurelia Northstar, Hero of Kvatch, Blood-Kin to the Orcs, Priest of the Order of the Hourglass that serves Akatosh the Time-Dragon,” Bjarni called out, his basso rumble chasing away the silence of the Great Hall.

            “You make me sound so much more impressive than I am,” Martin muttered, earning a grin from the sable-haired young Nord.

            “Welcome to Windhelm, Dragonborn,” Ulfric said, rising to his feet and stepping down from the throne. “Glad are we to welcome the prophesised hero of legend who will bind and banish Alduin whence he came!”

            Ulfric’s Voice echoed across the vaults of the Great Hall. He had excellent control over his Thu’um. Maybe he could teach Martin a thing or two.

            When everyone looked at Martin expectantly, he inclined his head to Ulfric slightly. “I am honoured to be welcomed to your hall,” he said formally. “I have come to seek counsel on the Thu’um, Jarl Ulfric, and the proper uses of it.”

            Ulfric’s eyebrows shot up. “You have the soul of a dragon. That gives you leave to use it as you must.”

            “But what happens when the sheer force of your Thu’um can injure or even kill when you are angry or loud?” Martin folded his hands before him. “The Way of the Voice has a point or two, and… there has been one injury already.”

            “It was that Orcish bard from Morthal,” Bjarni said. “Apparently Martin injured him by telling him to shut up.”

            Ulfric spread his hands. “All I can say is live in a house of stone, use pewter or wood crockery and try to keep your temper in check.”

            “Well, that’s useful,” Martin observed dryly.

            “What can I say? I am fallen from the teachings of the Greybeards. It’s a beautiful philosophy, but not one suited to the world we live in.” Ulfric sighed and looked wistful. “How is Arngeir?”

            “Himself. He made it clear that I mustn’t abuse the power Akatosh gave me.”

            “That sounds like Arngeir. One of the other Greybeards told me he’d been a Blade and…” Ulfric shook his head. “Arngeir was keenly aware of how power could be abused. He could be downright testy about it.”

            “Yes, I noticed,” Martin agreed. “Korli told me that the Blades and Talos had corrupted each other and that I should balance every life I take with helping someone. But… that sounds too easy, almost.”

            “It’s very hard,” Sigdrifa said softly. “Or so she told me once.”

            “Speaking of Korli, why didn’t you tell me she was our sister?” Bjarni demanded.

            “Because, legally speaking, she isn’t,” Ulfric said before Sigdrifa could speak. “She removed herself from the clan before the Holdmoot. Foreswore all allegiances not of Kyne. She has no obligations, but cannot claim wergild.”

            “I… thought you’d put it together,” Sigdrifa said slowly. “I was obviously wrong. I should have said something.”

            “Yeah, you should have,” Bjarni said flatly.

            “From everything I’ve heard, being raised by a foster family saved me a lot of grief,” Martin observed. “Any other surprises I need to be aware of?”

            “Don’t feed Egil beans and share a bedroom with him,” Ralof quipped, earning a laugh from some of the assembled crowd.

            “Ralof sings like a horker,” Egil retorted. “He could scare the Thalmor away with his voice.”

            “He still sings better than me,” a burly man in bearskins laughed. “So, are we going to feast the Dragonborn or not?”

            Two hours later, after a whirlwind tour of Windhelm that included the Temple of Talos, Martin found himself sandwiched between Ulfric and Galmar (the bearskin-clad commander of the Stormcloak armies) with Lydia a few seats down. After Sanguine’s brew at Morvunskar, the mead tasted very weak, but he still sipped it cautiously. The table was sparer than Balgruuf’s, but Ulfric and Sigdrifa were half-priests, so a certain amount of austerity was to be expected.

            When Ghorbash and a Stormcloak arrived with Sahloknir’s skull, everyone burst into cheers that almost shook the Great Hall. Martin found himself the subject of many toasts and boasts.

            After most of the guests had cleared out, Galmar gave a hearty belch and stretched out his bare feet. “Even if you don’t fight for us, Dragonborn, you’ve given our cause a mighty boost by coming here,” he said comfortably.

            “I am, perhaps, too much a child of the Empire-that-was to fight against them, even if Mede’s Empire is a sad reflection of the Septim one,” Martin admitted with a sigh. “But I will not fight for them, Galmar. Not after the way they spat on Talos and those who saved them from Oblivion.”

            “We’ll take it,” Ulfric said quietly. “But what of the Thalmor?”

            “I don’t like what I know,” Martin said. “I think a Blade I know wants to find out what they know about dragons.”

            “Little. And you can say Delphine,” Sigdrifa said, drinking some water. She didn’t touch a drop of alcohol. “I’d gladly run her on a rail back to Wayrest, but I’ll settle for keeping her out of Windhelm.”

            “I can promise that,” Martin said. “Once she gets used to taking orders from the Dragonborn, not giving them and expecting me to jump like a dog.”

            “Still, it would be no bad idea to find out what the Thalmor are planning,” Ulfric mused.

            “Even if an agent could get into one of Elenwen’s parties, they’d be found out and taken the dungeons underneath the embassy,” Bjarni pointed out.

            “I’m thinking sneaking into the Justicar headquarters in Markarth would be a better option,” Ralof drawled after a sip of mead. “Ondolemar’s security isn’t half as good as it should be.”

            “Maybe both,” Martin said. “I am… under instruction to go to Markarth. I could contact someone I know in Riften to handle the embassy investigation.”

            “Irkand?” Sigdrifa asked. “He’s competent, but he’s a drunk.”

            “So he’s acclimatised to Skyrim then.”

            Egil snorted mead, he laughed so hard. Bjarni looked surprised at his brother’s laughter.

            “Some things must be kept in the family,” Martin said quietly. “Irkand is… well, he’s competent.”

            “But he’s a drunk,” Sigdrifa repeated.

            Martin arched his eyebrows. “Can you blame him?”

            She said nothing. What could she?


	16. Justicar Ondolemar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism and genocide. Yay, they finally meet!

 

There was something about the stone and copper city of Markarth that made Martin think of the Ayleids, though he was told the architecture was Dwemer (or dwarven, as they were known in Cyrodiil). He hadn’t expected a woman to almost be murdered by one of the ‘Forsworn’ on entrance to the city or to have a scrawled note thrust in his hand by an outlandishly tattooed young man that said to meet at the old Temple of Talos after sunset. The woman thanked him with a silver and emerald necklace, the Hold guard told him to move on, and Ghorbash suggested they go to the Silver-Blood Inn to find out what in Oblivion was going on.

            “Shel’s got a couple cousins in the city, Moth and Ghorza,” the Orc rumbled. Lydia had been left behind at Whiterun in order to avoid diplomatic awkwardness should go wrong. “Moth works up at Understone Keep and Ghorza is near the smelters.”

            “I wasn’t told a lot about the politics in the Reach,” Martin said softly in Orcish as the innkeeper and his wife argued.

            “Silver-Bloods own most of it and support Ulfric. Igmund is an idiot who thinks he can burn the Forsworn out of the hills and supports the Empire. The Forsworn hate every human who isn’t a Reachman. Good place for a mercenary, lousy place to be a native,” Ghorbash said, waving the pretty barmaid over. “Oh, and Chief Justicar Ondolemar struts around like a peacock, telling everyone that Altmer are better and that the Empire exists because the Dominion allows it to.”

            Martin blinked. “That sounds… blatant.”

            “Ondolemar doesn’t mince words. I’m a little surprised he and the Silver-Bloods haven’t killed each other.”

            Martin sighed. “I almost wish we’d taken the embassy job.”

            Understone Keep was cavernous. The Dwemer certainly built on a grand scale. A Colovian Priest of Arkay was already arguing with a gruff man in steel armour about the Hall of the Dead, where the honoured deceased of Skyrim were laid to rest. From the left Martin could hear a querulous old man discussing Dwemer mechanics with a younger, bored-sounding man while from the right came the ring of hammer on steel. From here, he could see a slouching, slightly slovenly man sitting on what had to be the Jarl’s throne and descending the stairs from the top tier were three Altmer, two in traditional elven armour and the third in elaborate gold-trimmed black robes.

            “Behold,” Ghorbash said dryly, “The great court of Markarth.”

            Martin swallowed a laugh. The Thalmor, at least, didn’t look like they had a sense of humour.

            “What’s so funny, Cyrod?” snapped the Nord in armour now that the Priest of Arkay was gone. “Laughing about how you took Talos from us?”

            “My friend made a comment. I assure you, your religious beliefs weren’t the topic of the conversation,” Martin said mildly. “I’m guessing you’re one of the Silver-Bloods I’ve heard about.”

            “I am Thongvor Silver-Blood!” announced the Stormcloak grandly. “I am an adviser to Ulfric himself on matters of politics.”

            “Yes, Ulfric did mention you when we had dinner together,” Martin said blandly. “I am Martin Northstar, the Dragonborn.”

            Thongvor’s chest, puffed out for another grand announcement, deflated like a popped pig-bladder ball. “I-I apologise,” he said slowly. “My temper’s sharp since that damned Verulus won’t let me in to tend to the Silver-Blood dead in the Hall.”

            “I understand.” Martin looked past the minor noble to see the Thalmor approaching. The robed one was tall and lean, his face softer and rounder than the others, eyes a bright gold but the sclerae almost white. His head was shaved but there was something familiar in the shape of his features.

            His gaze widened on seeing Martin and then they narrowed. “Dragonborn,” he greeted tersely. His accent was almost perfect but there was a subtle burr to it. “Know that the Dominion will not interfere in your attempts to banish Alduin. In return, we ask that you do not interfere in our education of the Nords on the falsity of Talos worship.”

            “If you’re trying to educate Nords, you’re going about it the wrong way,” Ghorbash drawled.

            “Oh? I always thought they responded well to short, simple words and forthright speech,” Ondolemar retorted sardonically.

            “Nords are not your pet dogs!” spat Thongvor.

            “You’re correct. My pet dogs have a lineage more distinguished and ancient than yours,” Ondolemar said.

            “When Ulfric reclaims the Reach, I’ll mount your head at the gates,” snarled Thongvor as he backed away.

            After the Nord had left, Ondolemar sighed. “Intelligent conversation is hard to find in this wretched city. Would you and your Orcish friend care to join me for a quiet drink? I have some intelligence about the dragons that may prove useful.”

            “Only if it’s in your quarters and the door’s left open,” Martin said softly. “Your faction’s reputation precedes it.”

            “Yes, it does.” Ondolemar turned smartly on his heel, his guards following suit, and led them up to the third tier and to the right.

            “Liliel, Jaranko, you’re relieved for the next two hours,” he ordered when they were in the Keep’s private wing. “Make sure Thongvor’s left the building. I know he and his brother are behind that spree of Forsworn killings, I just need the evidence.”

            The two Altmer saluted and left.

            Ondolemar went over to a sideboard and poured wine into cups that looked suspiciously like Akaviri work. Much of the visible quarters were spartan, everything placed just so in the manner Martin remembered from Cloud Ruler Temple. There was even a katana sheathed above the bed.

            “Trophies from Cloud Ruler?” Martin asked slowly.

            “Memories.” Ondolemar’s accent coarsened and the haughtiness disappeared. He sounded tired. “So Arius had a hidden lineage. That fits with what I remember of the boy. Paranoid and secretive after his mother Aria Carvain was murdered.”

            “Little good is said about him,” Martin agreed. “Are you a Blade?”

            Ondolemar smiled sadly. “There was a Thalmor agent named Ondolemar who killed Aria and nearly killed Arius too. I looked a lot like him, so Julius Martin asked me to become a deep cover agent. I did as he requested, because I was the last to have known your namesake, Aurelia Northstar, Sidgara, Baurus and all the rest.”

            Martin looked closer. Older, less muscular and now bald, but he now knew the face. “Marius?”

            “Someone remembers who I was. That is… good.” Marius sighed heavily. “You look like your namesake so much that it breaks my heart.”

            Martin exchanged glances with Ghorbash, who shrugged. “You might as well tell him.”

            “Marius,” he said slowly, “What if I were to tell you that I am Martin come again, returned to the world to deal with my errant brother Alduin?”

…

When the Orc told this new Martin to tell him something, Marius had to wonder what it was. The resemblance to the original Martin was uncanny, if one discounted the scraggly beard, rumpled mage robes and the longer uncombed hair. His eyes were that bright blue, his face grave and his voice so much the same.

            “I would say that you’re insane,” Marius finally said.

            Martin sighed. “I feared you would say that.”

            He rose to his feet, walked around the table, and whispered in Marius’ ear, “I remember when you were practicing with the fighting chain shirtless in the dojo of Cloud Ruler Temple. You asked Aurelia and me if we were holding up, put the thought in my mind to use the Thu’um, and discussed recruiting a renegade Greybeard for the Blades.”

            Marius dropped the cup of wine on the stone table. The priceless Akaviri cup, one of his mother’s heirlooms, shattered and spilt red wine everywhere.

            He should say something. Ondolemar was never lost for words.

            But he’d admitted he was Marius, hadn’t he?

            Martin, reborn. Martin, close to him, smelling of sweat and mead, breath tickling his ear.

            Maybe Marius had finally snapped, lost touch with reality, and Aurelia Northstar was showing some compassion by giving him this delusion.

            Marius stood up, pulled Martin into a fierce embrace, and kissed him. He tasted of mead and though he started with surprise, he didn’t flinch away but instead leaned into the kiss.

            “Malacath’s balls,” the Orc laughed, “Korli wasn’t kidding when she said he was an old friend of yours.”

            This was real.

            “Oh shit,” Marius said.


	17. The Forsworn Conspiracy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

 

Martin touched his lips again. He could still feel Marius’ kiss, taste the sour wine and something that was undeniably him. How long had Marius felt that way for him? Why didn’t he say anything?

            Now Marius was Ondolemar once more, a stern-faced Justicar facing off against the Dragonborn of Nord legend. “I need something to keep Elenwen placated for the next few months,” he said crisply. “That, sadly, means Talos worshippers.”

            “The Silver-Bloods,” Martin said softly.

            “Yes. I know you’re friendly with the Stormcloaks – rumour spreads far and fast – but no one will miss the Silver-Bloods. They own half the land and are abusing what few native landowners remain into selling their property for basement prices. They own and operate Cidhna Mine, which is perhaps the worst prison in Skyrim, if not Tamriel – outside of a Thalmor facility.”

            “And you believe they’re behind these ‘Forsworn’ killings?” Martin asked quietly.

            “I know so. Every murder was of a Silver-Blood opponent.”

            “We should start by talking to that Margret you saved in the marketplace,” Ghorbash growled. “She was attacked for a reason.”

            “Indeed.” Martin glanced at Marius. “I…”

            “For the moment, you need me in the Thalmor. Elenwen will kill you for being the bastard son of Arius Aurelius. If she knew you were Martin Septim, she would kill all of Skyrim to make sure of your death.”

            He was right, damn him. Marius was now, what, two hundred and fifty years old? A long way from the Eternal Champion and son of the Blades Agent. “Your mother?”

            “Died in the same attack as Ocato. They used Mehrunes’ Razor, which they’d gotten from Sidgara’s corpse. She killed five of the ten assassins in the ambush and I hunted down the rest,” Marius said grimly. “Aurelia used Volendrung to shatter the damned thing and she, Hircine and Malacath charged mortal followers to hide them.”

            There it was again, the casual mention of Aurelia as a Daedric Prince. Martin had contemplated walking up to a madman and asking to speak to the Madgoddess, but Sheogorath didn’t live within all insane people. What would she say to him? Did she love or hate him?

            “My mother’s people still protect their part,” Ghorbash growled. “Look, I hate to interrupt the reunion, but we need to get Margret before she leaves Markarth and then meet that tattooed Reachman at the Shrine of Talos. If they’re not connected, I’m a Breton feather dancer.”

            Marius grinned. “I have to admit, seeing a Breton-trained Orc feather dancer would be interesting.”

            “Ha!” Ghorbash paused. “Do you reckon Korli would like a feather dancer?”

            “She’d probably laugh.” Martin rubbed the back of his neck. “Marius…”

            “Go. We have our duties.” His tone was sad.

            Outside Understone Keep, night had fallen. Martin carefully picked his way through the steep stairs and streets, Ghorbash by his side. Lydia was a fine huscarl but Martin had to admit he preferred the ex-Legionnaire’s gruff professionalism and unflappable nature. “So you fancy Korli, eh?”

            “I do. She’s a lot like a Nord wisewoman.” Ghorbash sighed. “Do you reckon she’d be interested?”

            “I honestly don’t know. If not, it wouldn’t be because you’re an Orc. It would be because of her vocation to serve Kynareth.”

            “That’s fair enough,” Ghorbash sighed.

            Margret was sitting by the fire with a mug of ale in her hand. “Thank you again for saving me,” she said when Martin sat beside her.

            “Why would the Silver-Bloods want you dead?” Martin asked softly but clearly.

            “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just in town buying jewellery for my sister.” Margret laughed, but the sound was off.

            Martin simply watched her for a long moment.

            “Your eyes…” Margret shuddered, then looked around. There were only a few drunks at the bar. “Dammit, are they on to me?”

            “If they sent a ‘Forsworn’ to kill you, then yes,” Martin said.

            “Bastards,” Margret said bitterly. “Rebels and tyrants. If they get put in charge of the Reach, there will never be peace between the Forsworn and anyone else.”

            “I’m guessing you’re an Imperial agent,” Martin observed.

            “Yes.” She fished her room key from her pouch. “My journal has all I know. I intend to leave right after we’re done talking. I can’t do this.”

            “Thank you.”

            Margret’s journal was informative. Martin scanned it as he walked into the Shrine of Talos.

            “Thank the old gods,” said the young Reachman from earlier. “I was wondering if anyone cared.”

            “People do, lad,” Martin said gently. “But this… if I pursue this, people will be angry. Do you have any family?”

            “My wife, but-“

            “Get her and leave Markarth. The Silver-Bloods nearly murdered a trained Imperial agent today. You and she will be nothing.” Martin closed the journal. “I will pursue this to the bitter end, I promise. But you must leave tonight. Go with Margret if you can.”

            He paled under his elaborate tattoos but nodded. “Thank you. Who are you?”

            “I am the Dragonborn.”

            The Reachman couldn’t leave soon enough after that.

            “That was wise,” Ghorbash said.

            “I don’t want innocent people dying.” Martin took a deep breath. “Let us start with the killer.”

…

Rustem was leaving Understone Keep after questioning Anton Virane – and killing him with a poison that would make him look like the tragic victim of a heart attack – when all Oblivion broke loose to the side. A stream of scantily-clad men wielding magic and crude weapons of teeth and bones were pouring out, overwhelming the few guards and a finely dressed Nord on the streets at this hour. After the first rush, a dishevelled Cyrod in rumpled robes and his Orcish friend exited, looking around guardedly. “One less Silver-Blood in the world,” said the Orc. “I wish we could make sure of Thongvor too.”

            “He’s Mar-Ondolemar’s problem,” said the Cyrod mage. “Ulfric is an honourable man. How can he have such scum as friends?”

            “They’re more the Stormsword’s friends than Ulfric’s,” Rustem observed, sauntering over. “So you’re little brother Martin. Mixing with Forsworn? That old bastard we call a father must be spinning in his grave.”

            “You must be Rustem,” Martin said, covering his startlement with a calm, cool tone. “It’s good to meet you at last.”

            “You might be the first member of my family to ever say that,” Rustem said dryly. “What brings you to Markarth?”

            “Making contact. And ending this rash of murders,” Martin said calmly. “The Silver-Bloods were using the Forsworn as assassins to murder their rivals, except Madanach decided to sow a little chaos of his own.”

            Rustem’s eyebrow rose. “That’s very rude of the Silver-Bloods. We’re not cheap, but our prices are reasonable.”

            “Thonar is dead,” Martin said. “I don’t know if Thongvor had anything to do with it. If he’s a friend of the Stormsword’s-“

            “He’s a murderous, manipulative asshole,” Rustem finished bluntly. “Birds of a feather, little brother, birds of a feather.”

            He reached over and patted Martin on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, the Brotherhood will leave you alone. All That Is Not needs All That Is to exist. Good luck with Alduin, by the way.”

            Martin gave him a sour expression. “Thanks. I think.”

            Rustem grinned at his brother, shifted his glaive across his shoulders, and sauntered off. He needed five minutes, a Forsworn weapon and Thongvor alone. The Silver-Bloods were very rude. And it would piss off Sigdrifa.


	18. Diplomatic Immunity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, imprisonment, implied torture and mentions of genocide and kidnapping. Ilak Tossinoff is back!
> 
> …

 

“Ondolemar, I couldn’t have done better myself,” Elenwen said warmly. “Madanach on the loose again, the Silver-Bloods dead or in prison – you’ve outdone yourself. I can’t reassign you back to Alinor like you deserve, but I can give you a few days of respite from that wretched city. You must stay for my latest party. It’s got _quite_ the guest list.”

            “Just provide some of that Sunhold Red and I’ll attend,” Marius said calmly. The original Ondolemar had been quite the gourmand. Marius, who preferred his food simple and unpretentious, was forced to eat complicated dishes with unpronounceable names and drink wines that only had longevity to recommend them. He’d kill for a good mammoth steak and some mead. Whiterun reportedly had fine selections of both.

            “That’s a little more plebeian than I’d expect you to drink,” Elenwen said, eyebrows rising.

            “My palate’s been absolutely ruined by what the Jarl serves in Understone Keep. If Anton Virane worked with the Gourmet in Daggerfall as he claims, it was surely as the dishwasher,” Marius lied.

            Elenwen’s expression softened. “We all make sacrifices for the greater good. If these barbarians would just accept we’re doing this for the good of the world, we could go home and wait for the world to unravel in safety, peace and comfort.”

            “It is in the nature of humanity to resist a return to formless divinity, for Lorkhan’s design is branded into their very souls,” Marius said quietly. “Sometimes, though I’m sure the High Priest of Auri-El would claim this is blasphemy, I think we should just free ourselves and let the ones who desire the world keep it.”

            “You’re not the first to say that,” Elenwen said gently. “It is a thought of young folk who do not appreciate the enormity of our compassion for the entirety of Nirn. Our Aedra ancestors are bound into the fabric of time and space itself. It would be the most profound selfishness to think only of ourselves and leave them imprisoned.”

            Marius bowed his head. The warped thing about Elenwen is she genuinely believed this was the best, kindest course for the world. She didn’t take pleasure in her actions, but accepted them as necessary atrocities.

            “Come. I have shellfish from Lillandril, that Sunhold Red you asked for and a fine saddle of mutton,” she said with a smile. “My cook is Khajiit, but she’s more than competent in Alinorian cuisine.”

…

Bjarni gave his false name to the Altmer major-domo and managed not to laugh at the mer’s twitching lips. His choice of name was so patently ridiculous that only parents would call their child it. Yet inexplicably it worked.

            “Ilak Tossinoff!” announced the major-domo. “I present to you Ilak Tossinoff!”

            Elenwen, wearing dreadful black makeup that highlighted the gauntness of the well-bred Altmer, immediately swooped upon him like a hawk with a rabbit. “I apologise,” she said with false sincerity. “It’s Alinorian custom to announce each honoured guest.”

            “No need. Sometimes I think my parents named me this for a laugh,” Bjarni said with a smile. “Every time my name is announced, it makes men and mer laugh, and is it not the highest vocation of mortals to spread love and joy in this world?”

            Ilak Tossinoff was a semi-devout worshipper of Dibella, a Nord fur merchant known for his hearty appetite and heartier laugh. He took nothing seriously and made friends with all.

            “A non-warlike Nord. Are you sure you’re not committing some religious blasphemy?” Elenwen said, smiling faintly.

            “Pfft, only the worshippers of the false god Talos would believe so. When you persuaded the great Emperor to sign the White-Gold Concordat, you freed Nords like myself from the pressure of having to be a great warrior.” Bjarni grinned at Razalan, a known drunk and rowdy. “I can get fat, marry a wife to make fat, and have fat children without worrying about the ‘glory of mighty Talos’.”

            “I like him,” Razalan announced.

            “I wish more Nords shared your wisdom,” Elenwen said amusedly. “Enjoy the party, Ilak.”

            “I will,” Bjarni said softly.

            His job was to be the distraction as a wiry olive-bronze Redguard in black leathers that seemingly absorbed the light infiltrated the embassy. They needed everything the Thalmor had on the Blades, dragons, Ulfric and the Stormcloaks. If it couldn’t be taken, it needed to be burned.

            The party progressed, musicians from the Bards College performing, rich foods and drinks being served up, and the guests chatting about business. Bjarni flitted from guest to guest, making deals that he would keep (in the Old Holds, the furs these westerners craved were common) and observing the Thalmor. At one point, one who was a little bigger and sturdier than the others, clad in a Justicar’s robes, stalked off. That was Ondolemar, the chief Justicar in Skyrim.

            A pot plant in the corner drank more mead than Bjarni though. His mother might deplore his choice of companions, but he’d picked up a wide variety of skills, sleight of hand being one of them. If everything went wrong with the rebellion, he could sneak into the Thieves Guild and work from there, he supposed.

            It was almost midnight when a dishevelled Ondolemar returned to the room. “We have a situation,” he said crisply. “We need to get all the humans out of here now.”

            “Ondolemar, where are your manners?” Elenwen chided.

            “I left them with the corpses of every guard in the compound,” Ondolemar snapped in reply. “Can we please remove all the humans or will you cause a diplomatic incident by detaining them?”

            “What?” Elenwen said sharply. “Who?”

            Ondolemar’s expression was grim. “Who else? Irkand fucking Aurelius.”

            “Let’s go,” Bjarni said to Razalan. “She’s pissed. And Elenwen pissed is no joy.”

            “I’ll drink to that,” muttered the drunk, snagging another bottle of Colovian brandy for the road.

            As they left, Bjarni looked over his shoulder. He hoped Irkand knew what he was doing.

…

Irkand helped Etienne to his feet. The young Breton had been tortured extensively and was half-delirious from the pain, even after a powerful healing draught. Behind him was the twitching corpse of a troll.

            “What about Malborn?” mumbled the younger Thief.

            “He lives or dies on his own,” Irkand said coolly. “We must leave.”

            It was a long journey to the docks. Bjarni was already there, still clad in the cotton brocade so loved by the Nords. “Who’s that?” the young man asked.

            “A victim of the Thalmor,” Irkand told him. “We need to leave.”

            “Yes, I know. I thought the Guild frowned on killing?”

            They got into the boat, manned by two Nords in heavy furs and horker-hide. “They took one of our own. Besides, Elenwen would have been disappointed if I didn’t kill every one of the guards and Justicars within my reach. It’s part of the game we play.”

            “Yeah, you’re descended from the Madgoddess alright,” he muttered under his breath.

            Irkand chose not to comment on that.

            It was a day’s boat ride to Windhelm and another day in the carriage to Riften. Etienne drank every healing potion given to him and was a little better for it. Rune would have to use some of his Restoration to properly heal him.

            The Ratway was quiet and when he arrived at the Flagon, Brynjolf was there to greet him. “What the hell did you do?” he demanded.

            “Rescued Etienne, pissed off Elenwen. Why?”

            “The Thalmor captured your niece. Korli Wind-of-Kyne is in their hands.”


	19. Angering Kyne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, imprisonment and implied torture.

 

“So let me understand this correctly,” Tullius said, placing his hands on the map table and regarding his Legate Primus with a scowl. “The Thalmor have captured the daughter of two known traitors and you think to tell me this is a _bad_ thing?”

            “Korli’s parents are the traitors, not herself. She’s always paid her taxes and obeyed Imperial law,” Rikke answered with a tight mouth. “General, what Elenwen’s done is the equivalent of walking into the Temple of Kynareth and dragging off a High Priest of the goddess simply because some of her family are dangerous.”

            “No, Elenwen’s doing this because Irkand fucking Aurelius butchered most of her soldiers and stole the majority of her secret files,” grated Gaius Maro the Elder. The commander of the Penitus Oculatus was still mourning the murder of his son. It was… convenient… that the only man who knew all the security arrangements for the Emperor was dead and framed as a traitor. “The Aurelii must be in league with the Stormcloaks.”

            “No,” Rikke said quietly. “Martin Northstar unleashed Madanach from Cidhna Mine and the Silver-Blood family were butchered by Forsworn during the escape. Rumours have Rustem as being seen in the city shortly before their death too.”

            She looked towards the map. “This is bad. We might have been able to make a case to Martin before this by telling him we needed a Dragonborn to help set the Empire right. Maro, forgive me when I say this, but your father is twice ineligible to be Emperor in the eyes of the traditionalist Nords as a non-Dragonborn who has denied the divinity of Talos. Martin could have been an olive branch to them and the remnant Akaviri-bred clans in a way that Akaviria won’t be.”

            “Rikke has the right to speak frankly, even if it sounds like treason,” Tullius told Maro bluntly. “She’s from the Old Holds and was a comrade of Ulfric’s in the Great War.”

            “Rikke Snow-Stone’s loyalty is without question.” Maro rubbed his reddened eyes wearily. “So you’re saying that Martin Northstar is Dragonborn like the old Septim rulers?”

            “Given the rumours that surrounded Julius Martin and the man’s reported resemblance to Saint Martin Septim, I suspect that Akatosh is playing a long game here,” Rikke said, obviously choosing her words carefully. “He’s already friendly with the Stormcloaks. Letting Elenwen arrest the niece who helped guide him to High Hrothgar and who is considered an almost-incarnation of Kynareth may very well push him into joining the rebellion openly. You’ve seen the damage Ulfric can do. Imagine a Tongue who can slay an army or destroy crops with the Shout known as Storm Call.”

            Mario shifted. “Would she be willing to swear an oath forswearing any claim to the Ruby Throne and declaring that the Empire is the true ruler of Skyrim?”

            “The first is more than likely. Her devotion to her herd of goats is almost proverbial. The second… Kynareth doesn’t care who rules, Maro. She only cares the world continues and that the gifts of nature aren’t abused.”

            “Dammit.” Tullius straightened up. He didn’t understand why Nords were so attached to their gods. He respected Akatosh as patron of the Empire and prayed to the other Divines on the appropriate days, but he wasn’t devout. “I’ll sign an order. Rikke, deliver it with Hadvar. Elenwen can’t have sent her to Northwatch Keep yet. She’ll want to question her nice and slow.”

            “If Elenwen puts up a fight, I’ll remind her that her remit only extends to Talos worshippers,” Rikke said grimly.

            “Good.” Tullius wrote out the appropriate phrases. “I hope this works, Rikke.”

            “If it doesn’t, the Empire is in deep trouble, so it will have to.”

…

Thorald Grey-Mane cracked open an eye as a new prisoner was dragged into the interrogation chamber. Compact, dark-haired and wearing rough Rifter garments, she had an olive-bronze complexion and startling blue-green eyes. “She’s the daughter of Rustem and niece of this new Dragonborn,” Elenwen herself told the interrogator. “Consider her a training exercise in breaking someone quickly and efficiently.”

            “I have commended my soul to Kyne, to be spun out as She wills,” said Korli Wind-of-Kyne calmly.

            “Then She must desire you to die for the sins of your family,” Elenwen said with chilling gentleness. “I bear you no ill will. But Irkand murdered several Thalmor, including my only son. That has earned you a slow death. Out of courtesy, I won’t have you soul trapped.”

            “You couldn’t if you wanted to,” Korli said serenely. “Kyne’s given me that much of a surety.”

            She looked around at the other prisoners. “At least, my fellow children of Kyne, you will be spared the torment of the Soul Cairn. Kynareth promises it!”

            Elenwen sneered. “Kynareth is the weakest of the Divines. What could she-?”

            The womer clutched her throat and staggered back, making choking noises as her golden face turned red-gold. Thorald watched in fascination as Elenwen turned several interesting shades before collapsing to the floor, quite dead.

            “She is the goddess of the air. Never have I met the mortal who can live without it,” Korli said with the same serenity.

            “A clever use of Telekinesis,” remarked the interrogator dispassionately as he reached for the magicka-inhibiting poison. “Forgive me but-“

            “Feim!” Korli became as intangible as a ghost and her bonds dropped to the ground. “Kyne is the goddess of the passage between life and death, from birth to ending, in Skyrim’s belief system. What power has Auri-El that can match that?”

            “Auri-El is working to free his foolish siblings from the earthbones!” the interrogator countered, sounding panicky.

            “There’s your third mistake,” Korli said as she became tangible again. “You’re assuming Kynareth wants to be freed.”

            She gestured and the shackles fell from Thorald’s wrists. “Get everyone out of here and get them over to the Reach. Someone from Hag’s End will meet you. Please don’t kill her. She’s a Hagraven.”

            Thorald didn’t want to disobey her, not when the air smelt of lightning and rain, not when the stone was rumbling under his feet.

            He left the Thalmor to suffer. They could all die for what they had done to him, to his fellow prisoners.

            They were in the treeline when Korli’s Voice cracked across the sky. “STRUN BAH QO!”

            The air boiled with clouds and lightning began to strike the ground. Even from here, the cries of the dying Thalmor were sweet.

            “Who the hell is that?” demanded one of the Breton prisoners.

            Thorald found himself grinning. “That is the Wind of Kyne. And from the sounds of it, Kyne is mightily pissed off.”

            He nodded to the west. “Let’s go. We have to meet this Hagraven.”

            She wasn’t the first Hagraven he’d met, but she was the first one who stood tall as a Nord. Unnervingly, her eyes were pale green and there was something in the shape of her features that made Thorald think of Sigdrifa Stormsword.

            She smiled and it was an ugly thing. “So you are the Skyguard. Welcome to the Reach. Your old lives are over and now every breath of yours belongs to Kyne. If you don’t like this idea, you’re welcome to return to Haafingar.”

            Thorald looked over his shoulder. The sky still boiled and raged. But none of the lightning hit them. “How…?”

            “The Thu’um. Korli could have been the Dragonborn but she refused. I hear Akatosh had to improvise.” The Hagraven grinned. “I am Catriona. We better get to shelter. That storm can still drown us if we’re not careful.”

            With no other choice, Thorald and the others followed the Hagraven into the Reach.


	20. A Quiet Moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

_“STRUN BAH QO!”_

A woman’s Voice that was also thunder cracked across the sky, rolling from horizon to horizon. Clouds stitched together with lightning boiled up from the north and washed the Reach with hard clean rain. The storm petered out just over the border in Whiterun, the sky fading from iron-grey to ice-blue. In the distance, Martin could hear the distant calls of dragons, tinted with anger and alarm.

            Eltrys peered up at the sky. His wife Rhiada, a few months pregnant, huddled under Ghorbash’s thick fur cloak. Orcs had strong customs about the treatment of pregnancies and the former Legionnaire applied them to all races. If they hadn’t waited in the shadows of Salvius Farm for Martin and Ghorbash, they might have been attacked by Forsworn by now.

            “Kyne sounds pretty pissed off,” the Reachman finally observed. It seemed that the intricate tattoos that the traditionalists wore had different meanings. His tattoos declared an allegiance to the Right-Hand Gods, who were (mostly) the Aedra. Rhiada’s were simpler as she came from an urbanised clan but indicated her god of preference was Dibella, who was the Divine of wealth, peace, persuasion, love and good things in Reacher theology.

            “That sounded like Korli,” remarked Ghorbash.

            “Korli?” Eltrys asked curiously.

            “She’s a very powerful Priestess of Kyne,” Martin told them. “Some call her the Wind of Kyne.”

            Rhiada’s jaw dropped. “Catriona’s granddaughter! That’s Catriona’s granddaughter!”

            “Catriona?” Now it was Martin’s turn to be curious.

            “Matriarch of the Glenmoril Coven. Before she Ascended into the ranks of the Hagravens, she was a senior Hag of Lost Valley Clan, married into Stag Crown Clan – that’s the Kreathling Jarls’ family – and one of the few Reacher Nord nobility,” Rhiada explained.

            Eltrys gave her a startled glance. “You didn’t tell me you’d learned the clan genealogies.”

            “I was learning from Bothela with Muiri,” Rhiada explained. “Bothela would have been Hag, I would have been Mother, and Muiri the Maiden. A coven for Markarth.”

            “Sounds about right,” Ghorbash confirmed. “I wish you’d told me you were a wisewoman, Rhiada. I could have gotten you both sanctuary at Dushnikh Yal.”

            “Apprentice. Muiri was further along in her studies.” Rhiada looked up at the sky as the clouds died down. “Northeast… That’d be up near Hag’s End or maybe in Haafingar. It’s too north and west to be Hjaalmarch.”

            “We better cross the border into Whiterun before Igmund’s guards find us,” Martin said.

            “Agreed. We can travel to Hjaalmarch from Rorikstead – Idgrod’s a Matriarch, though of Jhunal,” Rhiada agreed. “The bog-clans have always preferred the Right-Hand Gods.”

            Eltrys shook his head in amazement. “You never told me any of this, acushla.”

            “I didn’t want you to get in trouble with the Silver-Bloods. Except you had to go investigate those murders, didn’t you?” Rhiada was shaking her head but smiling. “We’re two of a kind, mo chroi.”

            They reached Rorikstead by sunset and while Eltrys’ facial tattoos drew a wary glance from the local Nords, no one commented on them. They even rented a room at the inn without trouble.

            “Whatever’s going on with Korli, I must trust she can handle it,” Martin said softly to Ghorbash as they drank some ale on the porch of the inn. “I need to take this damned horn to High Hrothgar and see if the Greybeards will give me some more answers.”

            “I can come with you… unless the Greybeards will have a problem with an Orc,” Ghorbash offered.

            “I’d appreciate it,” Martin said gratefully. “It’s a very long tedious walk.”

            Ghorbash smiled, leaning against the wall. “So, you and Marius?”

            Martin blushed. “I… did always find him attractive. But Aurelia was the one I loved.”

            “And now she’s a Daedric Prince and you’re the Dragonborn.”

            “Yes,” Martin said with a sigh. “I’m… surprised she hasn’t reached out to me.”

            “The Madgoddess tries not to meddle. It’s a god thing. Maybe she’s moved on and she wants you too as well.”

            “Perhaps.” Martin pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have to chastise Alduin. Pursuing a romance would be absolutely insane at the moment.”

            “Maybe.” Ghorbash chuckled. “But if you can’t find love at a time like this, what are you fighting for?”

            “I… don’t know.”

            It was dark now and only a few lights glittered in the cottages surrounding the inn. This was a simple village but the fields were the richest Martin had ever seen. He nursed his flagon of ale after Ghorbash went inside, appreciating the simple pleasure of silent solitude.

            Would he and Marius have moments like this once Alduin was banished and the Thalmor dealt with? He’d cherished the few he had with Aurelia at Cloud Ruler Temple.

            He sighed and finished his mead. There was so much he needed to do before he could rest.


	21. Your Own Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

Whiterun was busy and bustling even in the late stages of autumn. Workers wheeled casks of salted and smoked meat into great warehouses, the fields were little more than bare brown stubble and everyone was wearing wool instead of linen. Martin sold the loot from the bandits and necromancers stupid enough to cross his and Ghorbash’s path on the road from Rorikstead. It made for a tidy little sum even when split with Ghorbash as was appropriate; five thousand septims or so.

            “Maybe you can buy us both a bathhouse,” laughed the Orc. “If it wasn’t for your eyes, everyone would think you’re a vagabond masquerading as the Dragonborn.”

            “You’re not much cleaner,” Martin shot back.

            “I’m an Orc. We can look scruffy.”

            When he saw his reflection in the silver platter Fralia Grey-Mane had hung up at her stall as a mirror, Martin was shocked. Lank greasy hair hung around a tired, dirty face, bright blue eyes sparking fitfully, a patchy beard completing the look. He’d always shaved because he couldn’t grow a proper beard.

            Belethor had soap and a razor, Hulda had a bathhouse, and soon enough Martin and Ghorbash were luxuriating in hot water with freshly shaved faces. There wasn’t much Martin could do to cut his hair, so he tied it back. For once, he actually looked like a civilised human being.

            “Shame your friend isn’t here,” Ghorbash teased with a grin.

            Martin gave him a bland look. “Why, were you looking to be the meat in a Cyrod-Altmer sandwich?”

            Ghorbash laughed uproariously. “I’m flattered, but no thanks. I don’t think Marius shares well!”

            Martin flushed. “I don’t know. When we last saw each other, it was a time of crisis, and I was involved with Aurelia. Now…”

            “Remember, you can choose your destiny now,” Ghorbash reminded, stretching luxuriously in his tub. “So what happens after we deliver this horn to the Greybeards?”

            “They greet me formally. What that means, I have no idea.” Martin sat back in the tub. “Arngeir implied that it would change everything.”

            “From what you said, Arngeir’s been wrong before. He said Korli couldn’t Shout a sparrow’s fart and the woman raises a storm!” Ghorbash grinned. “It’ll make any disagreements we have, if she’s interested in me, entertaining!”

            Martin smiled wryly. “No doubt. I would give much to know why she was using Storm Call.”

            “Is that the Shout’s name?”

            “If I understand correctly, yes.”

            Ghorbash began to rinse himself off with more hot water. “We’ll find out soon enough. She’ll want to get back to her goats, I imagine.”

            “True enough.”

            Martin bought himself some new mage robes and a better sword with the remaining coin while Ghorbash paid Adrianne Avenicci to mend and sharpen his arms and armour. By the next morning, they were ready to travel to Ivarstead and make the climb to High Hrothgar.

            After some deliberation, Martin chose to take the mountain path instead of the road that led past Helgen. There were bandits and wild beasts on the way, as to be expected in a land as untamed as Skyrim, and he acquired more wealth and pelts. Temba in Ivarstead always liked pelts, if he recalled correctly.

            Ivarstead was still picturesque. What wasn’t picturesque was the language coming out of Korli’s mouth as she spoke to Gwilin and Klimmek. “The goats aren’t in Riverwood where they were meant to winter, they haven’t come back here,” she was saying in between creative uses of Dovahzul, “So where the bloody hell are they?”

            “If we knew that, Korli, we’d have them back already,” Klimmek told her.

            “Dammit. I go to do one thing for Kyne and my goats go missing.” Korli threw her hands up in the air. “I swear, if those bears ate them, they’re pelts.”

            “Have you tried Clairvoyance?” Martin suggested as he approached them. “I could scry for the goats if you can’t.”

            “I tried. Someone’s either used salt and water to hide their trail or the bloody goats are dead,” Korli answered with a sigh. “My goats are worth a lot but they’re also a lot of work.”

            “When we’re done with High Hrothgar, we could help you track them,” Ghorbash offered.

            “The dragons are a little more important than my goats,” Korli said. “I was moving them to the Reach anyway.”

            “Isn’t the Reach full of Daedra-worshipping Forsworn?” Klimmek said dubiously.

            “I have kin-ties there,” was Korli’s answer.

            “Klimmek, do you have any more supplies for High Hrothgar?” Martin asked the man. “I have to go up there anyway…”

            “Sure. I’ll go get them. Gwilin, wanna help?” the Nord asked the Bosmer.

            “Of course. I can tell my grandkids I helped the Dragonborn once.” Gwilin grinned and left with Klimmek.

            “I’m glad you’re alright,” Martin said to Korli. “We felt your storm near Rorikstead. What happened?”

            “Long story short, the Thalmor captured me after Uncle Irkand snuck into the embassy, stole a lot of files and killed damn near everyone inside,” Korli said with a sigh. “It only happened by Kyne’s will, I might add. I stole the air from Elenwen’s lungs and brought the storm to Northwatch Keep. The surviving prisoners should be in the Reach now, heading for Karthspire and the Akaviri temple there under Grandma Catriona’s supervision. They – and I – will become the Skyguard, dedicated to dragonlore and the knowledge of the Akaviri in service to Kyne. The knowledge of the Dragonguard and Blades will not be lost, but our service to Talos is done and more than done.”

            “Were you hurt?” Martin asked carefully.

            “Some bruises and a wrenched shoulder. I’m angrier about the goats, honestly.” Korli sighed yet again. “So you’re finally getting up to High Hrothgar?”

            “Yes. Are you coming with us?”

            “No. I have to find my goats. I know it seems a little one-track, but… well… these goats are the only thing that’s ever been mine. Everything else has been my family’s or by grace of Kyne.” Korli’s smile was a sad one. “Everyone thinks serving the gods is great until the price of that grace is due.”

            “I know exactly what you mean,” Martin agreed softly.

            “Of us all, I rather thought you would.” Korli looked up at High Hrothgar. “Remember, your fate is your own.”

            “Hey, do you mind if I visit you at Karthspire?” Ghorbash asked. “The Orcs of Dushnikh Yal have a good relationship with the hill-clans. Your grandma’s Matriarch Catriona, right?”

            “Yep. Hagraven of Hircine,” Korli agreed with a wry smile. “You’re welcome to visit. The Blades were so mired in espionage and politics that they lost their true purpose.”

            “Your grandmother’s a Hagraven?” Martin asked slowly. He’d heard of the terrible mixing of bird and woman.

            “Yes. There are certain Daedric Princes who are invested in Nirn enough to lend a hand. Hircine is one of them, no doubt because of his loose alliance with the Madgoddess and Malacath, though it’s not as tight as the bonds between Aurelia, Sanguine and Malacath.” Korli folded her arms. “Believe me, the Aedra are influencing events too. But you choose your own destiny beyond the destruction of Alduin.”

            Imperial teaching was that the Aedra were good and the Daedra evil. But Martin was beginning to understand that the truth was more complex than that. “Why are you telling me so much to choose your own destiny?”

            Her blue-green eyes were very wise. “Because I was the one meant to be Dragonborn and I told Akatosh to _shove_ his ‘blessing’. You are destined to defeat Alduin, no more and no less. Beyond that… is your own choice.”


	22. Dahmaan Dar Rok

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

 

“What do you mean Elenwen’s _dead_?” shrieked Ancano. “Everyone except you, me and Valmir down in the Rift are dead! I thought you were meant to be competent, Ondolemar-“

            “Lingrah krosis saraan Strundu'ul, voth nid balaan klov praan nau. Naal Thu'umu, mu ofan nii nu, Dovahkiin, naal suleyk do Kaan, naal suleyk do Shor, ahrk naal suleyk do Atmorasewuth. Meyz nu Ysmir, Dovahsebrom. Dahmaan daar rok.”

            The words – no, _Words_ – rolled over Ancano’s shrill voice like thunder swallowing a rabbit’s scream. Even Marius, with his attempts to study Dovahzul since the Oblivion Crisis, could only parse the rough meaning of it. The Greybeards were acknowledging Martin as the Last Dragonborn… and daring him to live up to the Aedric power he carried as birthright.

            “You see, Ancano, the Thalmor have made one very great mistake in the scheme of things,” he said softly as the thunder died away. “We have assumed that the Aedra are passive victims in need of rescue.”

            The pasty-faced mer stared at him. “They were tricked by Lorkhan-“

            “Were they?” Ondolemar laid his hands on the desk. “I have it on good authority that it takes non-Dragonborn Nords about a decade to learn a new Shout. We had a fucking goatherd annihilate Elenwen and her people at Northwatch Keep, a goatherd who was in her early thirties and hadn’t lived at High Hrothgar since the age of eighteen.”

            “The Aurelii are descendants of Talos,” Ancano grated.

            “Yes, but even the Talos-descended Nord Septims couldn’t do much more than learn one or two Words on their own. Julius Martin proved that.” And from what Martin had told him, Marius was beginning to have a suspicion on Julius Martin’s fate. The Greybeards didn’t tolerate arrogance. “I made enquiries about that goatherd. It turns out she’s a literal Agent of Kyne and _allowed_ herself to be captured in order to make an example.”

            “You mean Kynareth?” Ancano said shakily.

            “Oh no. Kynareth is the Imperialised goddess of sunshine, bunny rabbits and spring breezes, to quote an old friend of mine.” Gods but he missed Sidgara. The Shieldmaiden would have made short work of Ancano and the few remaining Thalmor agents in Skyrim. Sigdrifa wasn’t a patch on her four-times-grandaunt. “Kyne is the more primal form of the goddess, the warrior-widow of Shor, the ancient Nords’ goddess of reincarnation and the storm.”

            Marius smiled at Ancano’s slightly sick expression. “It was She, not Akatosh, who gave the Nords the Thu’um.”

            “I-I didn’t realise you knew so much about primitive beliefs,” Ancano said.

            “Elenwen didn’t invite me here for the pleasure of my company. I am the only one who can count two Aurelii kills, and one of them the most competent of the family.” Marius examined his nails nonchalantly. “What have you done for the Thalmor again?”

            “I am investigating ways of unwinding the Time-Serpent so that we may return to formless divinity,” Ancano said smugly. “I believe the Aedric artefact known as the Eye of Magnus is the key. I simply have to speak to the Augur of Dunlain on my return to Winterhold.”

            “Isn’t some Nord sponsored by Psijics outwitting you at every turn?” Marius answered calmly.

            “Onmund? I’m dealing with him.” Ancano leaned over and patted his cheek insultingly. “Sit back and enjoy the last days of the world, Ondolemar. I’m sure your two Aurelii kills contributed to my efforts.”

            Marius grabbed his wrist and broke it with a flex of his fingers.

            “What the _fuck_ you insane-“

            The sound of repeatedly smashing Ancano’s face into the stone desk of his office in Markarth was perhaps the sweetest music that Marius had heard in a very long time. It took a few goes but eventually he was dead, his face red ruin.

            “Thank you for coming privily at night,” Marius said as he shrugged off his Thalmor robes. “Alas for poor Ondolemar, slain by a rabid Stormcloak.”

            Ondolemar was dead. Long live Marius Aurelius.

…

“So what now?” Ghorbash asked Korli as they heard the Greybeards’ announcement.

            “Now the fun begins,” was her response. “Alduin won’t take this sitting down.”

            “You have a strange idea of fun,” the Orc remarked.

            “It comes from being descended from a long line of arseholes destined to save the world,” she said.

            Ghorbash laughed. She had a point.

…

“Yes, because kidnapping her goats is going to make her cooperate!”

            “I didn’t kidnap them!” Sigdrifa snapped back. “I’m holding them for her so she’s not distracted.”

            “I saw the ruins of Northwatch Keep,” reported one of the Stormcloak scouts from Haafingar. “If she wants to tend goats, let her.”

            “Amen,” agreed Ralof. Finally, someone with a bit of sense around here. “I’ll take the goats back. If Sigdrifa does it, Korli might just be guilty of kinslaughter.”

            After all, the goats were worth more than Sigdrifa.

…

Aurelia gently patted Narfi on the head. He was delusional, more so since his sister disappeared. Reyda swam with the gods now.

            “Martin Septim is dead,” she said. “Long live Maar-Diin Dovahkiin.”

…

Alduin roared. Around him, the loyal dragons who served Him, the last to be devoured in the end of days, echoed His roar.

            Maar-Diin was certain he had everything in hand. Al-Du-In would show him who was true Thursedovahhe.

            “We attack the mortals who live at the base of Monahven,” he ordered. “The Jill there will not put up much of a fight.”

            Maar-Diin would grovel before Alduin devoured his soul.


	23. Back From the Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

 

“YOU FRAMED MY SON!”

            “And your father sold out Hammerfell to the Aldmeri Dominion,” Rustem said as he took a defensive stance. Son of a bitch had managed to trick Astrid. She should be embarrassed of herself.

            Maro gave him a startled glance. “You mean this isn’t vengeance for Arius?”

            “That crazy old coot? Don’t make me laugh.” Rustem gripped his naginata and sent flames wreathing around the dragonbone shaft. “Now you going to grow a spine and attack me or let your archers try to finish me off?”

            “I’m going to kill you. Then I’m going to kill your fucking Brotherhood. Imagine my surprise when your precious leader came to me and spilled the beans.” Maro’s face was demonic in the firelight. “Then I’m going to Riften to kill your brother. Then I’m going to kill your daughter and her goats. Then I might go to Elinhir and kill your other brat. Maybe then my family will be safe.”

            “Touch Cirroc or Callaina and you will die screaming with your daddy,” Rustem promised.

            “It’s over, Rustem. The Aurelii are finally over.” Maro grinned maniacally. “Archers!”

            Rustem cast Ironflesh and jumped off the bridge. The stones cracked under his increased weight and the trail of fire left by his brandished naginata cleared a path to the gate. “Catch him!” he heard Maro shriek above the storm.

            The only thing they caught was death. Haafingar’s guards were smarter than the Penitus Oculatus and so they got out of the way. Rustem swiped right and left with his naginata once free of the gates, ran down the hill to Katla’s Farm, and stole a horse as the stablemaster cursed him.

            It wasn’t Shadowmere but it ran like the wind. He cut through Hjaalmarch and Whiterun because it was flat terrain, lost the horse to exhaustion somewhere in northern Falkreath above the treeline, and then ran as fast as he could through the forest paths. He had to trust that Dawnstar Sanctuary was safe.

            The smoke told him before the fire did that he’d probably arrived too late. Rustem threw firebolts at the two Penitus Oculatus guards, entered the Sanctuary, and just arrived in time to see Arnbjorn cut down. Damn Astrid and her betrayal.

            Frost came hard to Rustem’s hand but he was able to make himself a path long enough to reach Nazir and Babette. “Die!” screamed the Penitus Oculatus agent in an officer’s uniform.

            Rustem cut him in two. “Let’s go!” he yelled to Nazir and Babette.

            Outside, they inhaled smoky air that still tasted sweeter than inside. “What about Astrid?” Nazir asked hoarsely.

            “I have it from Maro’s own mouth she sold us out. Fuck her,” was Rustem’s succinct response.

            Babette turned to the inky pool of water and whispered words. From its depths came a coal-black, fiery-eyed mare. “Dawnstar?” she asked.

            “Of course.” Rustem looked at the burning ruins of the Sanctuary. “There’s nothing here now.”

…

“You’re joking.”

            “I assure you,” said the shaven-headed Altmer in rough leather armour with the dai-katana slung across his back. “I am Marius Aurelius.”

            Irkand took another mead from Vekel. “I’m done with the Blades.”

            “As am I. Whatever comes next, it will be met as an Aurelii, not as a Blade.” Marius sat down at his table without an invitation. “Good job at the Embassy. It allowed me to frame some idiot as Ondolemar and escape.”

            Irkand choked on his mead. _“You were Ondolemar?”_

            “At the request of Julius Martin after that bastard murdered Aria Carvain. I still remember Arius’ screams; I think that’s what warped him in the end, that terrible night.” Marius sighed. “After that, Julius Martin decided he was the Last Dragonborn and went up to High Hrothgar. From the little Martin said, they wouldn’t have abided his arrogance.”

            “Korli’s had a few things to say about them,” Irkand agreed. “That storm in the northwest… Was that her?”

            “Oh yes. Kyne demonstrated to the Thalmor that the Aedra quite like Nirn.” Marius’ smile was crooked. “Her actions at Northwatch Keep allowed me to eliminate the last major Thalmor agent in Skyrim.”

            “One must help family when one can,” Irkand said blandly.

            “Of course.” Marius was equally as bland.

            “So why are you here?” Irkand asked. “I think everyone’s at Ivarstead. Even the goats.”

            “The goats are actually up in Windhelm,” called over Vex, who was shamelessly eavesdropping. “Sigdrifa rustled them.”

            “The Stormsword managed to steal the goats that I couldn’t?” Brynjolf demanded, rising to his feet. “Like hell she did!”

            “She did,” Vex said with a grin.

            “Fuck that. I’m rustling them back.” The Guildmaster stalked out.

            Marius just looked confused.

            “The running joke around here is that Brynjolf can’t even steal a goat,” Irkand explained. “He tried to rustle a few of Korli’s and she had them chase him halfway back to Riften.”

            “They’re apparently caprine Daedra, to hear him tell it,” Tonilia agreed with a laugh.

            “They’re definitely smarter than some of the new recruits,” Vex agreed, snickering.

            “Those goats would make a dragon run,” Vekel observed.

            “Goats?” Marius now sounded disbelieving.

            Irkand grinned at him. “Want a drink? It’s how I cope with my family’s little idiosyncrasies.”


	24. Karthspire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

Korli handed Martin a bowl of thick rabbit stew and some of the ubiquitous Nord flatbread. “The answer to your question lies in Sky Haven Temple,” she explained. “I imagine Grandma’s gotten the survivors of Northwatch Keep to the Karthspire now in preparation for your arrival. Only the Dragonborn may open the Akaviri blood-seal on the place.”

            He managed a weak smile. His ears still rang from the Greybeards’ formal greeting. “Will you be there?”

            “I’ll come as soon as I’m able. There’s very few people who can rustle my goats and the Guild knows better.” Lightning flickered from fingertip to fingertip. “It’s time the Agent of Kyne had some words with the Last Shieldmaiden of Talos anyway.”

            “She’s your mother,” he reminded her gently.

            “She stopped being that a long time ago.” Korli rose to her feet. “The carriage will be here in a few hours. I’d take a nap if I were you.”

            Martin watched her leave with a sigh. He wished Sidgara was here. She and Korli would have gotten on well.

            The carriage arrived, as Korli predicted, in a few hours. Much to Martin’s surprise, Irkand and Marius were on it. “Dragonborn,” his great-grandson greeted formally. “What is left of the Aurelii are at your service… brother.”

            “Korli’s gone north to get back her goats from the Stormsword,” Martin said.

            “I’m not surprised. I suppose we’ll hear about Brynjolf being chased out of Eastmarch by goats. He was mortally offended the Stormsword managed to steal them when he couldn’t,” Marius observed sarcastically. “We have dragons running about and she’s worried about those goats.”

            “She may be limited in the amount of intervention she can do,” Martin chided softly. “She’s an Agent of Kyne.”

            Marius flushed rose-gold. “I know, it’s just…”

            “I know.” Martin sighed. “At least I don’t have to sit on my backside and watch others take a risk this time around.”

            Irkand blinked. “I don’t understand.”

            “Never mind.” Irkand was a little high-strung and Martin didn’t want to discuss his strange reincarnation with the Thief. “So I guess we’re off to the Reach?”

            “Of course,” Marius confirmed. “Where else would Alduin’s Wall be but the sacred temple of the Dragonborn?”

…

“Welcome to Karthspire. I am Matriarch Catriona,” greeted the horrible mixture of raven and woman genially. Tall and spare, her underlying bones looked Nord and her beady eyes were a pale green. “The Skyguard awaits.”

            “Korli mentioned you,” Martin said quietly. “She’s going to get her goats off Sigdrifa.”

            “Is that so? I wasn’t aware my daughter had taken up goat-herding.” Catriona turned towards the Temple. “You’ve freed my cousin Madanach and that’s bought you a certain amount of tolerance, Martin. Don’t abuse it. We know the Dovahkiinne well in these mountains. We know how to kill them.”

            Karthspire, aside from its ghoulish trappings, wasn’t so different from any village. The local tribefolk bustled about, making arms and armour, preparing food and even playing games. “May I ask a question?” Martin asked diffidently.

             “Of course.” Catriona looked over her shoulder. “The goat’s heads and human skulls work something like a Dunmer Ghostfence. Treasured pets and honoured ancestors watch for us and alert us to threats, deflect any kind of supernatural scrying, and can even cause limited harm to the undead.”

            That wasn’t the question Martin wanted to ask. “I was going to ask why you’re involved.”

            “Because before I ever become Dengeir’s wife, I was a Hag and a teacher at the College of Winterhold,” Catriona answered softly. “The Skyguard is dedicated to preserving the lore of the Akaviri and the dragons under the auspices of Kyne. We acknowledge Her as the mother of man and beast, you know.”

            “I see. What does Hircine think about this?”

            “Hircine doesn’t give a damn what I do in my spare time,” was Catriona’s amused reply. “He and Kyne have a mutual respect.”

            “You’re taking the Daedra-empowered creature better than I expected,” Irkand noted.

            “Do you want to tell Korli’s grandmother she’s an evil creature from Oblivion?” Martin asked dryly.

            “Oh no. Nocturnal would be disappointed in me for my rudeness.”

            “I’m beginning to see why you’re not the Dragonborn,” Marius muttered under his breath.

            Madanach was seated on a throne of antlers and juniper branches. “Dragonborn!” greeted the King in Rags with a slightly grim smile. “So nice of you to drop by.”

            “Freedom suits you,” Martin told him.

            “I should have left earlier, but…” Madanach sighed. “Do I have your word as Dovahkiin that you won’t try to conquer the Reach in the name of Talos or any other god?”

            “I have no intention of conquering anything,” Martin assured the man. “You have my word as priest of Akatosh and Dragonborn.”

            “Maybe trusting you was a good idea,” Madanach said quietly. “Talos honed his voice on us, you know.”

            “I’m not Talos.”

            “No, but you have his blood. We had to be sure.” The King sighed. “Your Skyguard are waiting for you. So long as the dragons roam the sky, you may have unhindered passage through the Reach, so long as you do not attack my people.”

            “They leave me alone, I’ll leave them alone,” Martin promised.

            “Fair enough.”


	25. Tote the Goat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. I wish I could have given more attention to the Great Goat Heist but I can only write so much, sadly. At least I’m done for the semester.

 

Torsten Cruel-Sea wasn’t too familiar with goats, particularly the legendary goats of Korli Kyne’s Chosen. They were the colour of the clouds from seed-fluff white to thunderhead black, had eyes sharper than the tongue of Hillevi when he hadn’t been to temple lately, and moved with almost preternatural silence. How Sigdrifa managed to steal them, he had no idea. He wished she’d picked someone else to watch the damned beasts.

            He was walking home after a long day at the farm when he heard a startled bleat. Looking over his shoulder, he saw an athletic redhead with the rosy-fair complexion of a Reachman running down the road with every one of Korli’s goats at his heels as if they were caprine Daedra. Torsten considered his options, decided that getting trampled to death by goats was slightly worse than enduring one of Sigdrifa’s tirades, and decided to go home and have some mead before he told the Stormsword. Maybe two meads. Maybe he’d wait a week. Maybe two.

…

Odahviing was less than impressed with Alduin’s plan to attack the village below Paarthurnax’s roost but one obeyed the Thursedovahhe if one desired to remain undevoured until the end of all things. The order, of course, needed to be balanced with caution. Alduin thought little of Jills because He’d killed his but _two_ lived in this Ivarstead place. Teyfunvahzah, Paarthurnax’s mate, was bad enough. One of the dragons in the west said that Koor-Lah-Noor had used Storm Call to destroy an entire fortress of Krisfahliil. Odahviing decided to send a pair of younger dragons to scout the area before going in, hovering high above the clouds to watch what happened.

            He did not expect to see a joor running as if Alduin Himself chased him, a goat-kid in his arms and twenty or thirty more following. The dragon scouts laughed and swooped down to entertain themselves.

            They weren’t laughing when the Word ‘JOOR!’ echoed across the sky. One fell to the earth as he was struck with a blaze of lurid purple light. The other followed soon after. Even on the ground, they would be unharmed by the goats.

            Except they weren’t goats. To the time-seeing eyes of a dragon, Odahviing realised that while these creatures took the form of goats with silky cloud-coloured fur, they were something else. Each one was limned with Aedric light and lightning danced in their eyes, but underneath the goat-form was an ethereal shape of a joor in scaled armour with a curved sword.

            _Bruniikke!_ Akaviri! The red dragon dared look at Koor-Lah-Noor with his time-sight and flinched. She was a servant of Kaan and of the dragon-blood herself. Alduin had sown the wind and reaped the whirlwind by provoking her.

            Caution dictated a retreat. Odahviing turned tail and fled, wondering how he would explain this to Alduin. What was the joor phrase? Ah yes, tactical withdrawal.

…

Watching a herd of goats kill two dragons wasn’t something you saw every day. Brynjolf carefully lowered the kid he’d been carrying, reflecting that Nocturnal’s gifts allowed him to run like the wind without tiring, and gave Korli a sideways glance. “What the _fuck_ , lass?” he asked bluntly.

            “Most of the time they’re goats,” she admitted. “But sometimes, in a time of great need, they’re possessed by the spirits of every Blade who died and went to Heaven’s Reach Temple, the wing of Sovngarde reserved for them. It’s not perfect but… well, Kyne frowns upon the living being possessed by the dead, no matter how worthy the cause.”

            “Did you see the big red bastard run?” he asked, changing the subject.

            “Odahviing? Yep. He sent those two in as sacrificial lambs. Big Red replaced Paarthurnax as Alduin’s ass-kisser in chief.” Her smile was wry. “To be a fly on the wall when he has to explain himself to the World-Eater.”

            “Alduin sounds like Mercer.”

            “I’m not sure Mercer Frey deserves to be maligned by the association. He didn’t snack on souls.”

            The Blade-possessed goats had trampled the dragons to death by now, sparks striking from their hooves and horns. “I knew those beasties were unnatural.”

            Korli gave him a reproachful look. “How can you say that? They like you.”

            “They _like_ me?” Brynjolf asked in disbelief.

            Korli nodded to the dead dragons. “You’d know if they didn’t.”

            There was honestly not a lot he could say to that.


	26. Alduin's Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

Twenty people of every race represented in Tamriel were in the cavern where the blood-seal, guarded by the stern face of Reman Cyrodiil, waited for Martin. Their leader was a still-hefty young man with silver-grey hair. Like the others, he wore a grey-blue linen wrap embroidered with lightning bolts in a paler storm-grey. “Dragonborn,” he greeted. “I’m Thorald Grey-Mane.”

            “You were a Stormcloak?” Martin asked, shaking the man’s hand.

            Thorald nodded. “I’m from Clan Grey-Mane, Ulfric’s maternal kinfolk. I think he’ll understand why I’m here. He served Kyne once.”

            “Would you prefer Commander, Grandmaster or High Prelate?” Martin asked as he strode towards the blood-seal, the crowd parting ways like the sea before the Numidium.

            “Those are Cyrod terms. I am the Fyrst of the Skyguard. That means I’m third in command behind you and Korli during the Prophecy of the Dragonborn. Afterwards, we’ll see.”

            “I’m not resurrecting the Septim dynasty,” Martin said wearily.

            “Wouldn’t recognise it if you were.” Thorald’s expression was grim. “The Empire has failed Skyrim too many times to be trusted.”

            “On that we can agree,” Martin said quietly.

            He drew his iron knife as Ghorbash and Marius joined him. “The Akaviri blood-seals are a lost art,” he explained as he drew the blade across his palm and let the blood drip into the seal.

            Catriona made a rude cawing sound. “Only to the Akaviri. We Reachfolk remember much.”

            The seal glowed and the bust of Reman Cyrodiil lifted, revealing stairs that led to another set of stone doors that opened at a touch from Catriona.

            Inside, Sky Haven Temple was dank and musty, the detritus of three thousand years littering the space. But it was the magnificent Akaviri carvings to the right that drew Martin’s eye.

            “Alduin’s Wall,” he breathed.

            “Indeed,” Catriona confirmed. “Korli taught me the meaning of it in case she couldn’t be here for the opening of the Temple. She had it from Esbern, the last of the Blades loremasters. A Silver-Blood but a good man, she tells me.”

            “She’s set a lot of things in motion,” Marius remarked as he examined the carvings. “What you can’t translate, Mistress Catriona, I will be able to. Akaviri is my mother’s milk-tongue.”

            “Marius was First Blade and Master of Cloud Ruler Temple during the Oblivion Crisis,” Martin explained. “His father was Jauffre and his mother Ralinde the granddaughter of Kin-Tatsuo, Akaviri commander of the Dragonguard.”

            “He looks a lot like Ondolemar, the Chief Justicar,” remarked one of the Skyguard, a grey-tabby Khajiit, dourly.

            “It’s easier to say Ondolemar looked like me,” Marius said dryly. “I killed the original one and took his place.”

            “Did Elenwen know before she died?” Thorald asked with a grin.

            “Sadly, no. But I did have the pleasure of beating Ancano’s head into a stone desk several times and disguising his corpse as ‘Ondolemar’s’,” Marius said smugly. “Thorald, your Stormcloak friends can take credit for that one.”

            “Ma’Tisha approves,” the grey-tabby Khajiit said. “Her brother J’zargo said Ancano was much bother at the College.”

            “Pleasure to be of service, Madame,” Marius said with a mocking bow.

            “You lot, light torches and braziers, see what can be salvaged from this mess,” Thorald ordered the Skyguard. “Ma’Tisha, take yourself and Amelie out to the top of the mountain. Keep watch for dragons. You see one, you get your ass inside. This place is fireproof.”

            “Yes, Fyrst.” The Skyguard scattered to their appointed duties.

            “Most of them are good people and tougher than they look, but they don’t understand a lot about discretion,” Thorald said in a low voice. “I was an agent and courier of Ulfric’s.”

            Martin nodded absently, studying Alduin’s Wall. With his classical training, the Akaviri symbolism at the beginning and the end were easy to understand, but it was the three figures fighting Alduin in the middle that made things complicated. “Who are they?” he asked.

            “The Three Tongues,” Catriona said. “Gormlaith Golden-Hilt, Hakon One-Eye and Felldir the Old. Paarthurnax taught them the Thu’um at Kyne’s command and it’s said that all Tongues and Nord Dragonborn are descended from one or more of them.”

            “So that would mean they developed some kind of Shout to bind and banish the World-Eater,” Marius observed. “Did Korli teach you it?”

            “I can’t learn to Shout. I’m a Hagraven,” Catriona said dryly. “Korli indicated to me that the Greybeards would know where it could be learned… or from whom.”

            “Why didn’t they teach me when I gave them the bloody horn?” Martin snapped.

            “Probably some mystical ‘you’re not ready’ goat shit,” Catriona said, shrugging. “Arngeir would twiddle his thumbs as Alduin chowed down on the world because Greybeards don’t interfere.”

            Martin swallowed a groan. He didn’t want to do another climb up to High Hrothgar.

…

Martin opened his eyes and was greeted by the familiar sight of Marius’ chamber. The air smelt of rice pudding and fried ham while Blades called to each other on their guard rounds on the walls.

            Aurelia was standing at the window, her back to him. Her almost grotesque musculature and skin like slightly green-patinaed bronze were shown by the archaic white armour of a Grand Champion of the Arena. Ralinde audibly sniffed when they met each other in the Temple because Martin was ignoring her list of suitable Empresses (or docile bedwarmers) in favour of this failed Aurelii scion.

            “I’ve given you a familiar touchstone,” she said, turning to face him. Her eyes were a febrile pale green, so pale they were almost white. Her voice was still deep and hoarse but there was a hollow echo to it. “This place belongs to Kyne but since you’re going to High Hrothgar and an almost certain fight with Alduin, she let me stop by to see you.”

            “Madgoddess,” Martin breathed, sitting up in his bed. “Aurelia-“

            “Don’t feel bad about you and Marius,” she said gently. “I’m a Daedric Prince and you’re an Aedric one. It wouldn’t work out.”

            “Is it true that you and Malacath…?”

            “In the Ashpits, I am the Hunts-Wife of Malacath,” Aurelia confirmed. “We are two corners of the House of Troubles. I am less than the woman you knew and loved… yet I have become so much more.”

            “I failed you,” Martin said softly. “I should have set things up for you and the child. The Elder Council-“

            “We were a mess,” Aurelia said bluntly. “We ran over everyone like a dwarven automata to get our way and it cost us and the Empire in the end.”

            Martin couldn’t really argue with that. “Why are you here, Aurelia?”

            “For closure, I suppose. There’s… well, there’s more coming. Things will be interesting as you and Alduin square off.” Aurelia sighed. “Korli knows and… well, like you during the Oblivion Crisis, she’s planning to become the Avatar of Kyne.”

            “Which will kill her.”

            “Which will kill her.” Aurelia’s jaw rippled with anger. “I can respect the Storm-Goddess, but I’m not pleased my descendant is being set up to become a sacrifice to keep the world safe.”

            “What can you do about it?” Martin asked.

            “It’s more what can _you_ do about it,” she said. “First, we need an Elder Scroll…”


	27. Time Runs Short

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

“Sure. Let’s get an Elder Scroll. I have a spare one stashed away in my pockets.”

            Martin sighed. “I received… a divine visitation last night. The impression I get is that we need this particular Scroll to learn the Shout that the Three Tongues used to defeat Alduin.”

            “So why didn’t you say that in the first place?” Marius had to admire the swift way Ghorbash changed his mind once given a reason. “So where do we start?”

            “College of Winterhold,” suggested Catriona. “There was some Cyrod… Septus, maybe? Absolutely obsessed with Elder Scrolls. I don’t know if he’s still kicking – it’s been nearly seventy years – but surely he wrote something useful. What he won’t know, the librarian will.”

            Martin bowed slightly to the Hagraven. “Thank you, Mistress Catriona.”

            She actually dimpled. “What a charming young man you are.”

            He smiled. “Thank you. When Korli arrives here with her goats, please don’t let her do anything stupid. She reminds me of myself when I was younger.”

            “I’ll sit on her,” Ghorbash promised. “But only if she asks.”

            Catriona grinned. “I can keep her busy.”

            Madanach and two of the camp Briarhearts saw them to the edge of the camp. “I can give you safe passage to the edge of the Reach in Haafingar,” the High King told Martin. “From there, cut across the hills to the coast and follow that to Winterhold. It’s a long hike, but you’ll avoid the Legion and some of the more xenophobic Nords. There’s a Hagraven or two up there. Be careful; they don’t recognise mine or Catriona’s authority.”

            “Thank you,” Martin replied. “With Marius and Ghorbash, there’s little we can’t deal with.”

            “And Ulfric knows better than to threaten the Dragonborn,” Ghorbash said amusedly. “Martin saved his life at Helgen.”

            Madanach sighed. “Damn. I’d have loved to see that bastard go screaming down a dragon’s throat.”

            “I understand,” Martin said softly. “I don’t know how the civil war’s going, but I think Ulfric’s son Bjarni would be more sympathetic if the Stormcloaks win. Egil’s very… strict.”

            “We intend to reach out to Bjarni once Ulfric’s pissed off to Sovngarde,” Madanach said. “He’s more like his grandfather Hoag than that murderous loudmouthed bastard.”

            “May the gods be with you,” Martin said, giving the King a slight bow.

            “And you. If we kill any dragons, we’ll save the souls for you.” Madanach nodded and returned to his camp.

            It was a long, tedious and moderately dangerous walk to Winterhold. Marius learned to swiftly despise horkers, mudcrabs and the ragged bandits who populated the desolate coast. Ghorbash and Martin seemed to take it in their stride though. Overnighting in Dawnstar earned them filthy glares from the Jarl, a surly old man named Skald, until a handsome Redguard with a mane of fine braids leaned over and muttered something in his ear.

            Marius was unsurprised to see him approach them as they climbed the hill behind Dawnstar the next morning.

            “How’s the fight against Alduin going?” he asked in a deep sensuous voice. His eyes were the same bright blue as Martin’s, only with a golden splash around the pupils.

            “We need an Elder Scroll,” Martin told him. “I’d ask how the assassination business is going, but, ah…”

            He snickered. “It’s going. We’ve got a big one coming up. You kill Alduin and we’ll keep the Empire off your back.”

            Marius immediately understood what was going on. “Are you insane? You’ll destabilise the Empire!”

            “Titus Mede has it coming,” the assassin said serenely. “As I said, you worry about the dragons and I’ll handle that withered old bastard.”

            “Then kill Motierre while you’re at it,” Marius snapped at him. “He’s the Thalmor quisling.”

            “Of course he is. I always clean up after myself.” The assassin smiled and took himself off.

            “That would be my great-grandson Rustem,” Martin said with a sigh. “He belongs to Sithis.”

            “Sithis can keep him,” Marius said flatly. “Titus Mede, if you didn’t know, is the current Emperor.”

            “Pfft. We don’t need the old bastard,” Ghorbash said. “Let him die.”

            There was enough of the Emperor left in Martin for him to go pale under his warm tan. “Akatosh have mercy,” he breathed. “Can we stop it?”

            “Sure,” Ghorbash said, “You could let Alduin eat the world.”

            That wasn’t an option.

            “Let’s get to Winterhold,” Marius said. “Time runs short for us all.”


	28. Elder Knowledge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

Winterhold was… desolate.

            “I’d have thought more people would live near the College,” Martin observed as they entered the one-street village.

            Ghorbash snorted. “Nords, particularly those in the Old Holds, hate magic. Restoration and to a lesser extent Destruction are tolerable, but to most, magic is for elves and the weak.”

            “Ah.” Martin sighed. “Well, we need to seek the aid of the mages.”

            The gate to the College was guarded by a sallow-skinned Altmer with clear signs of Nord ancestry in the almost-white sclerae of her tawny eyes and the coarseness of her golden hair. “Hold!” she said in a low clear voice. “The way is perilous and the gate will not open for you.”

            Martin looked past the womer to the battered bridge over a deep chasm where the wind howled endlessly. Yes, that looked dangerous. “The College doesn’t welcome scholars then?”

            “After some difficulties with Jarl Korir, we screen our guests,” was her slightly chilly response. “Are you a mage?”

            “Yes.” He gently pushed her aside and took a deep breath. “I am also the Dragonborn. BEX!”

            The locked gate swung open of its own accord.

            “Well, then,” said the womer with a great deal of warmth to her voice, “You will be the first Tongue here since my grandfather Istvar Tongue-of-Shor. But if you’re a mage, why use a Shout?”

            “There’s nothing more that I’d like than to spend a few months researching for the pleasure of it,” Martin told her quietly. “But we need an Elder Scroll and Matriarch Catriona of the Reach told us one ‘Septus’ was researching them here about seventy years ago.”

            “Septimus. It drove him mad and he retreated to a workshop across the ice to what seems halfway to Atmora,” was her answer. “Urag has what’s left of his notes and a good deal of extra knowledge besides. He’s in the Arcaneum.”

            She pulled a metal token from her robes. “This will show you are a guest to anyone who sees it. Our new Arch-Mage will probably be pleased to have the Dragonborn here. He’s a Nord.”

            “Thank you. I am Martin Northstar, the Altmer is my… friend… Marius Aurelius, and the Orc is Ghorbash the Iron-Hand of Dushnikh Yal.”

            Her eyebrows arched amusedly. “Our Arch-Mage is getting married to a Khajiit. He won’t judge you for having an Altmer lover.”

            “Good,” Marius said tersely, “It’s always so awkward when you cut someone into cutlets.”

            She laughed. “A swordsman? Good for you!”

            Faralda, as her name turned out to be, guided them across the bridge to the College proper and handed them over to the Master Wizard, a sprightly old Nord named Tolfdir. “Dragonborn, eh?” he asked with a grin.

            “Yes,” Martin said quietly.

            “Onmund will be disappointed he missed you, but he’s in Windhelm trying to talk Ulfric into some sense about the College.” Tolfdir sighed. “The man uses a primal form of magic but then puts barriers on those who want to study.”

            “Hypocrisy is a major flaw of any racist,” Marius observed. “Though, Ulfric does have good cause to despise certain elves.”

            “No one denies it. The latest rumours out of Windhelm are that a Reacher used vile magic to steal the goats of Korli Wind-of-Kyne from the guardianship of her mother.” Tolfdir smirked. “I suspect that they were… retrieved… for her.”

            “You know Korli and Sigdrifa are related?” Marius asked.

            “Oh yes. Esbern, an old Blade, used to teach here.” The old mage sighed. “Then Ancano arrived and he disappeared.”

            “Ancano?” Martin asked.

            “The Thalmor ‘adviser’ to the College.” Tolfdir led them towards the main hall. “He disappeared around the same time that storm shattered Skyrim.”

            “He irritated someone,” Marius said. “I’m not at liberty to say more than that.”

            “I knew the Blades couldn’t have all been wiped out. I’ll give a prayer of gratitude to Talos tonight.”

            Urag was an Orc. “So you’re the Dragonborn looking for an Elder Scroll,” he growled, slamming some books down in front of Martin. “What are you trying to do, break the time-space continuum?”

            “I need an Elder Scroll to find out the Shout that the Three Tongues used to defeat Alduin,” Martin told him calmly.

            “Well, try not to end the world. I haven’t read all the books yet.”

            Studying the Scrolls had definitely unhinged Septimus’ mind. Urag confirmed the mad mage’s survival because he magically teleported supplies there once a month and received the confusing ramblings as payment. “Thank the Madgoddess she gave me a translation guide,” he rumbled.

            “Sheogorath’s gifts are usually two-edged,” Marius said quietly.

            “Sure. I have a compulsion to acquire, read and keep books.” Urag shrugged. “My clan-chief told me I was crazy to study magic, so I applied to her for some help.”

            “Aurelia’s like that,” Martin said with a slight smile.

            “Brave man to call her by her first name. But I suppose you’re the Dragonborn.”

            They overnighted at the College in comfortable guest rooms before going back into Winterhold. A local horker hunter who was the father of the Arch-Mage took them up to Septimus’ outpost, tucked deep within an iceberg. “Crazy old coot lives there,” he warned.

            “I know,” Martin confirmed.

            Inside, the place was ice-cold, but the old man puttering in front of a lock didn’t seem to mind. “Septimus?” Martin called out. “I heard you know about the Elder Scrolls.”

            “The Empire. They absconded with them. Or so they think. The ones they saw. The ones they thought they saw. I know of one. Forgotten. Sequestered. But I cannot go to it, not poor Septimus, for I... I have arisen beyond its grasp.” Septimus looked up at them. “Come down to my level.”

            They climbed down the stairs. With Marius and Ghorbash in the room, it was quite crowded. Here, Martin could see the lock was Dwemer in design. “What brings you here?” he asked curiously.

            “The ice entombs the heart. The bane of Kagrenac and Dagoth Ur. To harness it is to know. The fundaments. The Dwemer lockbox hides it from me. The Elder Scroll gives insight deeper than the deep ones, though. To bring about the opening.”

            “Uh huh.” Everyone knew that the Heart of Lorkhan had been destroyed by the Nerevarine. “Where is the Scroll?”

            “Here. Well, here as in this plane. Mundus. Tamriel. Nearby, relatively speaking. On the cosmological scale, it's all nearby.” Septimus gave him a sly look. “One block lifts the other. Septimus will give you what you want, but you must bring him something in return.”

            “Be wary,” Marius murmured in Martin’s ear. “I think this one’s touched by Hermaeus Mora.”

            “What do you want?” Martin asked gently.

            “You see this masterwork of the Dwemer. Deep inside their greatest knowings. Septimus is clever among men, but he is but an idiot child compared to the dullest of the Dwemer. Lucky then they left behind their own way of reading the Elder Scrolls. In the depths of Blackreach one yet lies. Have you heard of Blackreach? ‘Cast upon where Dwemer cities slept, the yearning spire hidden learnings kept.’”

            “I haven’t, but I’m sure you know how I can access it,” Martin said.

            “Under deep. Below the dark. The hidden keep. Tower Mzark. Alftand. The point of puncture, of first entry, of the tapping. Delve to its limits, and Blackreach lies just beyond. But not all can enter there. Only Septimus knows the hidden key to loose the lock to jump beneath the deathly rock.” Again, Septimus gave them a sly look.

            “So, you have keys then,” Ghorbash rumbled. “You wouldn’t be asking us otherwise.”

            “Two things I have for you. Two shapes. One edged, one round. The round one, for tuning. Dwemer music is soft and subtle, and needed to open their cleverest gates. The edged lexicon, for inscribing. To us, a hunk of metal. To the Dwemer, a full library of knowings. But... empty. Find Mzark and its sky-dome. The machinations there will read the Scroll and lay the lore upon the cube. Trust Septimus. He knows you can know.”

            Martin’s eyes widened. “Dwemer tonal architecture!”

            “Septimus sees the man with the dragon’s soul. Perhaps he can understand the Elder Scroll?” The mage laughed madly.

            “So what is this Elder Scroll?” Ghorbash asked. “Everyone keeps talking about it, but I don’t understand.”

            “You look to your left, you see one way. You look to your right, you see another. But neither is any harder than the opposite. But the Elder Scrolls... they look left and right in the stream of time. The future and past are as one. Sometimes they even look up. What do they see then? What if they dive in? Then the madness begins.”

            “Thank you,” Martin said. “Was there anything else?”

            Septimus was already turning away. “Not until you bring the Edged Lexicon to me.”

            Outside, Martin inhaled the cold air in relief. “Well then, we’re exploring an ancient Dwemer ruin.”

            Marius shuddered. “I remember some of what crawled out of Nchuand-Zel. We must be very careful, Martin.”

            Martin smiled gently. “With you two at my side, how could anything go wrong?”


	29. The Death of An Emperor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

 

“Twenty-five years for this. For Hammerfell. For my family. For myself.”

            Commander Maro readied his gladius. “Come then, traitor.”

            Behind the stocky Colovian, Delphine loomed up in the mist, climbing up from the water with katana already in her hands. One swipe and the bastard son of Titus Mede joined his Gaius in death.

            Rustem bowed to Delphine with a slightly mocking smile. They’d been a good team once and were now so again, but the fact that she perceived him as a traitor to the Blades lay between them now. If Rustem’s idiot sire hadn’t gotten everyone killed, they could have salvaged something-

            _If wishes were fishes, cats would feast,_ he thought as he donned his water-walking ring, courtesy of Rune in the Guild. Delphine slipped hers on and they stepped off the docks to land on the water.

            It was like wading through snow or sand; swift movement was impossible because every step had to be carefully placed. If you fell onto water while wearing this, your body would break as if you’d struck the ground. But for reaching a ship moored off the harbour, far from any potential assassins, it was a useful enchantment.

            The mist was thick today. Perhaps too much so. But once they reached the ship, they pocketed the rings and entered through an underwater hatch meant as an emergency escape for the Emperor, who owned a water-breathing ring. The Jewel of the Rumare, to be precise, a relic of the Hero of Kvatch.

            It was still early enough that few sailors were awake. Delphine’s needles, dipped in sleeping poison, took care of them. Rustem wanted to make a point, not drench the ship in blood. More needles dipped in a paralysis poison kept the Penitus Oculatus in place. Some of them might die. Mede would have an escort to the Void.

            The Emperor was, of course, in the finest cabin of the ship. The Katariah was the personal craft of the Medes and before them the Septims. Bastards couldn’t even build their own boat.

            “I was wondering what took you so long,” Mede said as he stared out the window. “Come now, don't be shy. You haven't come this far just to stand there gawking.”

            “Pity there isn’t much of a view this morning,” Rustem observed as he curled his hands around a bound version of his naginata. “Mist must be a disappointing last sight.”

            Mede snorted. “I’ve seen and done more than you ever will, Rustem Aurelius. Is Sithis a kind master, to be worth an eternity in the Void? You could have been much in Hammerfell. Beroc must be disappointed in you.”

            “It was Beroc who sent me to the Sons of Satakal, who you call Sithis,” Rustem said with a faint smile. “The Priests of Sura-HoonDing anticipate much and care not how a danger is dealt with. You betrayed Skyrim and Hammerfell. Now your chickens are coming home to roost.”

            “No words of vengeance for your father?” Mede turned around to face him, eyebrow rising.

            “Arius was a fucking idiot,” Rustem said bluntly. “I mourn the Blades he killed, that’s all.”

            “And you, Delphine Revanche?” Mede gave the blonde Breton a wry smile. “Has your devotion to Talos been replaced for the sake of revenge?”

            “I’m just here for the Blades you betrayed during the Great War,” was her chilly response. “Talos doesn’t give a damn what weapons are used either.”

            “You know you’re doing the Thalmor’s work.” Mede clasped his hands in front of him.

            “Don’t worry. Motierre’s going to follow you. Loose ends and all that.” Rustem nonchalantly rested his Bound naginata across his shoulder. “I imagine you’d prefer he not be around to marry Akaviria.”

            “She will hunt you and the Aurelii down,” Mede said.

            “If she’s smart, she’ll be crossing the border once word reaches Whiterun you’re dead,” Delphine said coolly. “The rest of the Blades and the Aurelii are out of your reach. Both your son and grandson are dead.”

            That struck home. “You were the ones who…?”

            “Set up Junior as a traitor and just sent Senior to the Void,” Rustem told him with great relish. “You couldn’t touch me, couldn’t find Irkand, and Martin can’t be killed because he’s the Dragonborn.”

            “You really believe Martin is your bastard brother?” Now Mede looked amused.

            “He’s a dead ringer for Martin Septim,” Rustem pointed out. “Unless Akatosh has raised Martin Septim from the dead…”

            “…That’s exactly what’s happened, you idiot,” Mede said scornfully. “Last year, the great bronze statue of Martin Septim was destroyed by the Thalmor. The entire Temple of the One was melted into slag. But the High Prelate of Akatosh foretold all was not lost. The Dragonfires would burn once more.”

            “That explains so much,” Delphine said quietly. “Well then, that means as a Blade, I need to remove a false Emperor from the Ruby Throne.”

            “You got Maro,” Rustem told her. “Mede is mine.”

            “Fine, fine.” Delphine stepped back as Rustem raised his naginata.

            “Any last words?” he asked the Emperor.

            “Fuck you, fuck your Daedra-spawned family and fuck the gods for rewarding me for my service to the Empire in such a matter.”

            “You know,” Rustem said as he brought his naginata down, “Those aren’t too bad as final words go.”


	30. Blackreach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

 

“What is wrong with you people?” Martin yelled, invoking Voice of the Emperor. The two quarrelling leaders of the failed Alftand expedition paused, weapons in hand, and he strode up to stand between them, summoning Frost Atronachs to make sure they behaved. “Most of your expedition are dead due to a Khajiit’s skooma addiction, dwarven automata or the Falmer, and you two quarrel over the spoils! Take what goods lay in the chest and _go_ before I decide to be rid of you altogether!”

            Given that he had two hardened warriors at his back and two Atronachs at the ready, the Nibenese and Redguard decided to do as he told them, leaving via the lift just beyond. “Lock that gate,” he said over his shoulder as he put the sphere in its place. “I don’t want those idiots coming back.”

            A set of stairs was revealed and once the gate was locked, they descended into the depths, only to emerge at a place that was both amazing and horrifying.

            “You could build a city here,” Marius marvelled as he beheld the glowing mushrooms, the strange geodes and the alien architecture.

            “Perhaps one was here,” Ghorbash observed. “Place is probably riddled with Falmer and automata. Let’s get this Scroll and go.”

            There were Falmer, chaurus, frostbite spiders and automata on the path to where the Clairvoyance spell said the Elder Scroll was. Martin must have gone through three or four Atronachs by the time he reached the place. Inside, there was a skeleton whose tattered journals provided some clues. Poor bastard. Martin gave him Last Rites and moved on.

            It took some time and button pushing to get the lenses in place after he placed the lexicon in the slot but eventually the Elder Scroll was revealed. “Are we going to take that thing back to Septimus?” Marius asked. “I got a strong whiff of Hermaeus Mora involved from him.”

            Martin’s thirst for knowledge fought with his natural dislike of most Daedric Princes until he remembered Hermaeus Mora was a treacherous bastard. “It stays,” he finally said. “We have the Elder Scroll.”

            The Tower of Mzark led them to the surface, where Martin inhaled the clean air gratefully.

            “Where to now?” asked Ghorbash.

            “High Hrothgar. Paarthurnax awaits us.”

…

“Blades-possessed goats. You have to admit, that sounds pretty crazy.”

            Korli Wind-of-Kyne shrugged. “Blades have an oath to fulfil. I suspect Alduin’s already snacked on those in Heaven’s Reach Temple if he managed to get inside. When Alduin’s returned to his proper place in the scheme of things, their work and mine will be done.”

            Thorald shuddered as he thought of all his heroic Stormcloak brethren in Sovngarde. Had they been devoured by the World-Eater or did they manage to make it to Tsun? It was a terrifying thought for a Nord. “What about the Skyguard?”

            “You preserve the ancient lore of the Akaviri and dragon alike,” was her calm answer. “Perhaps you might set up a militant order of Tongues to balance the Greybeards. The Thu’um may prove the difference between victory and defeat against the Thalmor.”

            He laughed bitterly. “How can I be a Tongue when I’ll never walk right again?”

            She snorted. “I didn’t realise you breathed with your legs.”

            He flushed. “You’re right. I… just never imagined on being the leader of anything, let alone a monastic order.”

            “You’re only monastic if you let yourself be,” she said. “Some of us need to be in the world. But the Skyguard is for you to lead. I prepared the way. You will walk it.”

            “So now what?” Ma’Tisha, the lone Khajiit, asked.

            “I return to High Hrothgar. Martin has himself an Elder Scroll – I can feel it in the earthbones.” Korli’s expression was grim. “I may not return. I know that… well, someone will die when Dragonborn and Firstborn meet. That someone could be me.”

            “Isn’t Kyne asking a bit much of you?” Thorald asked, aghast.

            “I don’t know. I know my dear old great-great-gran’s meddling and that muddles things up.” Korli shrugged. “One life as opposed to millions… Fair trade, I figure.”

            Thorald and Ma’Tisha exchanged glances. Put like that…

            “Jurold managed to bag a deer,” he said. “Want some venison for dinner?”


	31. At the Peak of the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. One of the reasons I’ve never written this Callaina/Korli as a POV character is because here, she’s fully aware of her role as one of the Jills, minute-mender dragons of Akatosh, and can use her power over probability consciously. In short, she’s ridiculously OP and more of a plot device.

 

It took Martin a week to return to High Hrothgar, mostly because he needed to prepare for the reading of the Elder Scroll. That meant selling everything he was carrying at Dawnstar and Winterhold, outfitting himself, Marius and Ghorbash in the best arms and armour he could afford, buying every spell Nelacar and Madena had available and learning them, and working on his spells so that he could cast swiftly, efficiently and often. He felt a distant pity for any fool brigand who attacked them on the roads across the Aalto and northern Rift because there was barely anything left to bury.

            Korli was at Ivarstead, wearing a more modest version of the Forsworn armour decorated with hawk feathers and carrying an elaborate staff with a hawk’s skull at the top. Her face was smeared with turquoise warpaint and jewellery glittering with enchantment was in her ears and nose, on wrists and ankles and neck, and even around her head in the form of a circlet.

            “No one knows what’s going to happen beyond you reading that Scroll at Monahven,” she said quietly. “But the earthbones are shuddering. Everyone knows something is about to happen.”

            “Did you rescue your goats?” Ghorbash asked.

            She nodded. “My mother had taken them. No doubt to try and get me to fight on the Stormcloaks’ side.”

            “Not very smart.”

            “Probably not.” She nodded at the mountain above them. “Let’s go.”

            The climb was peaceful as Korli used Kyne’s Peace to subdue the predators, even the ice wraiths. Martin could feel a slow deep thudding under his feet. The others looked grim and determined.

            Arngeir was in the main hall of the fortress. “So, it is time?” he asked.

            “We don’t know. But we need to go to Monahven,” Korli told him. “The place of Alduin’s first defeat.”

            “There is a Shout the Tongues used to defeat Alduin,” Martin explained.

            Arngeir’s expression grew grim. “Dragonrend. A Shout forged from the hatred and grief of the Three Tongues. When you learn a Shout, you internalise its meaning. Do you really wish that kind of negative feeling on your soul?”

            “Julius Martin, you were a Blade once,” Marius said softly. “Time is now for the oaths of the Blades to be fulfilled.”

            “Marius…” Arngeir bowed his head. “I can’t teach him the Shout. No Greybeard knows it. It goes counter to the teachings of the Way of the Voice.”

            “Ah. Now I know what the Scroll’s for.” Korli stepped up and looked Arngeir in the eyes. “Kaan has called me here. The earthbones shudder under the weight of destiny. This may not be _the_ fight but it is a major battle in this new Dragon War. We go to Paarthurnax. Do not bar the way.”

            Arngeir’s blue eyes – so much like Martin’s own – widened as he beheld Korli as more than the goatherd who knew a Word or two.

            “I cannot stop you,” he said, turning for the door. “I have warned you of the dangers of Dragonrend.”

            Outside in the courtyard, he taught Martin the last Shout he would ever learn from the Greybeards – Clear Skies, for Monahven was guarded by chilling winds and mists. “Whatever Paarthurnax did, he has more than redeemed himself,” Arngeir said gravely.

            “We have no reason to harm him,” promised Martin. “Julius…”

            “I am Arngeir.” His voice was final.

            “As you wish. Thank you for your teachings.”

            “Go and end this.” Arngeir walked back inside.

            Ghorbash grunted. “Let’s get this over with.”

            Between Clear Skies and Kyne’s Peace, they reached the top of the Throat of the World as the sun turned red. By the time they reached a curved wall, a craggy grey-white dragon stirred and looked down at them with fiery eyes.

            “Dovahkiin,” he greeted. “What brings you and the Jill here? Not to hold tinvaak – conversation – with an old dovah.”

            “Paarthurnax,” Martin said with a slight bow. “I am honoured to meet you. I pledge that none of us mean harm to you.”

            “I am dovah. Is it wise to trust me?” Paarthurnax jumped off the wall and landed before them. “But tell me, zeymahi – it is better to be born good or to come to goodness through much effort?”

            “I do not wish to kill my siblings, errant though they might be,” Martin said softly. “Only Alduin and those loyal to him deserve chastisement and of the latter, I pray most learn their lesson before I must deliver it.”

            “A good answer. I see you bring the Kel – the Elder Scroll.” Paarthurnax’s mouth gaped in amusement. “You seek to learn Dragonrend?”

            “I must. Arngeir warned me it was a Shout of great hatred and grief.”

            “In the mouths of the Tongues, yes. To the dovahhe, it is everything we fear – a finite ending. Even I have trouble contemplating it.” Paarthurnax sighed gustily. “But Words have meaning, but what they mean may change with the speaker.”

            “I see,” Martin said softly.

            “If I may make a suggestion,” Marius said, “We should camp overnight – with Paarthurnax’s permission – and read the Scroll tomorrow. I suspect we better fight Alduin in the day.”

            “Of course. My mate Teyfunvahzah brought up fuel for your fires and we have a few frozen goats behind the wall,” Paarthurnax said. “Do not worry, Koor-Lah-Noor, they’re not yours.”

            “If you’d eaten my silk-wool goats, I’d have dragon-hide boots,” Korli said dryly.

            Paarthurnax laughed. “No doubt, briinahi!”

            They camped in separate tents that night. Martin found himself unable to sleep and went to Marius’ tent. Inside, the Altmer was sharpening his dai-katana for tomorrow’s fight.

            “I can’t sleep either,” Marius said.

            Martin smiled. “Maybe we can do something about that.”

            In some ways, it was like his last night with Aurelia before they went to that fateful battle at the Imperial City. But in most it was not. Martin was less fearful now and not as desperate for company while Marius had grown vulnerable in a way that couldn’t be defined yet didn’t weaken him as a person.

            In the morning, they emerged from the tent to see Ghorbash preparing breakfast. Legion-style rations, truly a worthy last meal for the champions of the world.

            They assembled in a diamond formation and Martin pulled out the Elder Scroll. “It’s now or never,” he said as he opened it.


	32. Su'um

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

 

Marius had no idea what Martin saw when he opened the Elder Scroll but he could feel the pulsing of the stone beneath his feet, growing more rapid with every second. The arrival of the great black dragon who could only be Alduin seemed almost prosaic in comparison, the terrible thunder of his Voice crashing across the sky.

            “Maar-Diin,” mocked the World-Eater. “Do you think the Kel will stop me?”

            “No,” Martin replied as he dropped the Elder Scroll, casting to produce Dremora Lords capable of sorcery. “But this will. JOOR ZAH FRUL!”

            A burst of intense violet light struck Alduin square in the torso, forcing the dragon to land. “So you wield the weapon of my ancient foe?” he laughed. “That will not save you.”

            Lightning came from a cloudless sky to dance across Alduin’s black skin. “Gahvon,” ordered Korli. “Gahvon ahst fin suleyk do Kaan ahrk Shor.”

            “I do not fear the wind or the dead god,” Alduin retorted.

            Marius and Ghorbash went in to flank the dragon.

            “Gahrot Su’um Nu!” Korli Shouted, pale blue light surrounding Alduin.

            They were able to get in a few blows before Alduin lumbered into the air, but Martin simply used Dragonrend to bring him back to earth. Paarthurnax strafed Alduin with fire where he could, which was precious little.

            The World-Eater fixed Korli with a baleful eye. “I have killed Jills before.”

            “Yes, I know.” Then she Shouted that strange Shout again.

            It became apparent that the fight was a draw. Alduin was immune to their attacks but between Korli and Martin, he was unable to escape or retaliate.

            “Yield to your rightful place, zeymahi,” Paarthurnax ordered. “The dovahhe _will_ learn restraint.”

            Alduin cast a glare at Paarthurnax. “Tahrodiis Paarthurnax! I may not have the Jill or Maar-Diin but I will have you!”

            He lunged at the old grey dragon, who could not get out of the way fast enough. One snap of the black dragon’s teeth and Paarthurnax’s eyes glazed over, red gushing from his throat.

            “Your soul is mine!” Alduin laughed triumphantly.

            But… Paarthurnax’s body did not turn to fire and be absorbed by Martin or Alduin. It just fell down like so much dead meat.

            “What? How could this be?” Alduin said, shocked.

            “It is the Way of the Voice,” Korli said quietly. “His soul has gone to Kaan.”

            Martin snarled. “Stay and fight, wyrm, or flee for a little while and spare your worthless life for a bit longer.”

            Alduin roared in response before taking flight, flying desperately to the east.

            “He goes now to Sovngarde to replenish his strength by devouring the souls of heroes,” Korli said heavily. “Time truly runs short.”

            “Did the World-Eater just flee us?” Ghorbash asked with a laugh.

            “Yes, but it has cost us too much,” Martin said, bowing his head.

            “We’ll see,” Korli said. “But first, we better tell Arngeir what’s happened.”

…

They gave Paarthurnax a hero’s funeral, the old dragon’s mate Teyfunvahzah returning from wherever he’d been to join them. “He is with Kaan,” Korli assured him. “He will return.”

            “But not as a dovah,” the small, frill-necked dragon said sorrowfully.

            “I don’t know,” Korli admitted. “Kaan doesn’t exactly tell me everything.”

            The Greybeards mourned their losses, as they should, but Martin knew this was only the first stage of the final battle. “How do we get to Sovngarde?” he asked Arngeir quietly.

            “I’d say ‘die heroically’, but that would be counterproductive.” The Greybeard wiped his cheeks. “Korli?”

            “Alduin got himself a new lieutenant after Paarthurnax told him to piss off,” she said. “The dragon’s name is Odahviing. He’s an arrogant little bastard, so showing his name should get his attention.”

            “How do we get the answers we need out of him?” Ghorbash asked.

            “We need Balgruuf’s dragon trap.” Korli smiled crookedly. “Here’s to hoping he listens.”

…

“Are you _insane_?”

            Balgruuf stared in shock at the Dragonborn, who looked weary and scruffy but much harder than the man he’d made his Thane. “Assuming he doesn’t burn my city down, what’s to stop Ulfric or Tullius from attacking me while my guard’s distracted?”

            “A truce,” Martin said firmly.

            “Speak to the Harbinger; this kind of thing comes under his purview,” Korli suggested. “Whiterun’s neutral anyway…”

            “Neither will listen.”

            “The Stormsword will listen to me and what she wills, Ulfric generally does.” Korli’s tone had turned steely. “The Imperials are your problem, kinsman.”

            Martin sighed. “Wonderful.”

…

“You deign to join us.”

            Sigdrifa’s tone was chilly and Bjarni was wondering if frost had gathered in the eaves of the Great Hall.

            His sister, the Agent of Kyne, was standing before the Throne of Ysgramor in Forsworn-style garb with a barbaric-looking staff in her hands. Korli didn’t look particularly cowed by Sigdrifa’s well-practiced glare; in fact, her eyes seemed to reflect ice and lightning in the uncertain light of the torches.

            “What brings you here?” Ulfric asked, leaning forward on his throne.

            “You will come to Whiterun by the end of this week to discuss a truce with General Tullius,” Korli said calmly.

            “I can forgive much from one who is god-touched, but I will not tolerate being ordered-“

            “Alduin has been driven to Sovngarde, where he feasts on the souls of the heroic dead,” Korli interrupted. “Is your pride more important than the souls of your martyrs, Ulfric?”

            Ulfric blanched. “The legends are true?”

            “Of course they are. Once Alduin’s defeated, you and Tullius can go back to making everyone else miserable.” Korli’s smile was grim. “But until then, you will cooperate, or you will be seeing the truth of the matter in person. Kyne will not be denied in this.”

            “How do we know you’re telling the truth?” Sigdrifa demanded.

            “NAHLOT!” Korli’s Voice echoed across the hall, striking Sigdrifa in her seat. Their mother opened her mouth but couldn’t say anything.

            “I have wanted to say that for twenty-five fucking years,” Korli continued. “Now shut up once the Shout wears off or I will render you permanently mute.”

            “If only,” muttered a Stormcloak to the side.

            “We will come,” Ulfric said in a shaken voice.

…

“Whiterun?”

            “The Harbinger will preside. He’s neutral in this civil war.” Martin Northstar, the Dragonborn who’d nearly died at Helgen, was calm and serene. If it wasn’t for the closeness of the Altmer in fine armour and their body language, Elisif might have considered seeking him as a consort. The resemblance to Martin Septim was truly uncanny, if Martin had been a slightly scruffy part-Nord.

            “I suppose he is,” Elisif agreed. “But why come to me?”

            “Are you not one of the claimants to the High King’s throne?” he asked with a perplexed expression.

            “Well, yes, but Tullius has always handled things like this,” she admitted. “He says I don’t have the experience.”

            “Jarl Elisif, you are from High Rock, where politics is mother’s milk,” Marius, the vaguely familiar Altmer, pointed out. “Tullius is a fine general but as politics goes, he’s not at your calibre.”

            Elisif dimpled at him. “Why thank you. But… will Tullius listen to me?”

            “Elisif!”

            Martin cocked his head and then grinned. “If that yell was anything to go by, he just found out Ulfric’s already agreed.”

            The General stormed into the parlour. “What is this word of a truce with Ulfric?”

            “Tullius, were you born in a barn?” Elisif said, nettled at his rudeness in front of the Dragonborn. “Martin, the Dragonborn, just told me that it’s the only way to help defeat Alduin.”

            He stopped short with a blink. Then he bowed. “I apologise, Jarl. I would have liked to be consulted on this matter.”

            Elisif favoured him with a reproachful look. “How can I tell you anything if you’re too busy to meet with me?”

            Tullius flushed red. “So we’re going to make peace with Ulfric?”

            “On a temporary basis. Balgruuf won’t let us use his dragon trap until you two agree to a truce,” Martin told him. “We plan to capture a lieutenant of Alduin’s, extract the location of Alduin’s hidey-hole from him, and then put paid to that lizard once and for all.”

            Tullius grunted. “So it’s tactical?”

            “Yes.”

            “Fine,” conceded the General reluctantly. “I better go tell Rikke to ready herself.”

            He stalked off and Elisif gave a delighted giggle. “Thank you so much!”

            Martin shrugged modestly. “You’re welcome. If you wish to be ruler, you need to show you have a spine.”

            “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

            Martin’s expression grew strange. “I speak from… family experience, I suppose.”

            Elisif rose to her feet. “Well, I better prepare for a trip to Whiterun. Tell me, do they have any decent seamstresses there? I need a new dress.”


	33. Season Unending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, torture, genocide, religious conflict and war crimes. Ain’t Season Unending fun?

 

“Madanach!”

            The King of the Reach grinned at Martin’s startled comment as he lowered the hood of his plain grey cloak. The Dragonborn was dressed in very good mage robes, his shaggy nut-brown hair had been trimmed and he’d decided to cultivate a neat beard instead of worrying about shaving. “How’d you like it if I were to yell ‘Martin Septim’ at the meeting?”

            Martin sighed. “Part of me wants the truth out but the rest is aware of the threat posed by the Dominion and other forces who would prefer there were no more Septims. I wasn’t aware you were here discreetly.”

            “I’d have sent a message but this meeting happened too fast for me to do so.” Madanach looked around at Jorrvaskr, heart of Nord culture and honour (such as it was). “Is it safe for me to be here?”

            “If you cause no trouble, you’ll come to no trouble,” Martin assured him. “I’m glad you came, actually. Korli advised me of what Ulfric and Sigdrifa are going to demand in the meeting.”

            “The Reach,” Madanach said grimly.

            “Yes. I’ll try and stop it but-“

            Madanach held up his hand. “No. It’s perfect.”

            Martin gave him a startled glance and the King in Rags nearly laughed.

            “Me and the clan-lords have been talking. The fact remains is that the Reach, however fierce and hardy its people, can’t stand on its own,” Madanach told him quietly. “But things as they are can’t stand. Hand the Reach over to Ulfric so that the Empire leaves. I will handle the rest.”

            The Dragonborn was no idiot; Madanach saw the light of comprehension dawn in those bright blue eyes. “Ah,” was all he said. “Let me warn the Harbinger of your presence. He deserves to know.”

            The old Harbinger, who’d had a bit of Reach blood in him, died recently and the surly Vilkas had replaced him. Madanach thanked his lucky stars the ex-werewolf was on relatively good terms with Catriona, who’d given them the cure for their lycanthropy on discovering that the modern Companions didn’t quite understand the bargain their predecessors had made. A hostile band of revered warriors could be problematic for the Reach.

            “Ulfric and Sigdrifa literally had to be dragged here by Korli,” Vilkas said without preamble. “The presence of Madanach might send them back to Windhelm and then where will you be, Martin?”

            “I’ve already agreed to the Stormcloaks being given control of the Reach,” Madanach assured him. “It’ll make my plans a lot easier.”

            “I don’t want to know,” was Vilkas’ curt reply. “Don’t make trouble or you’re out on your arse.”

            The Harbinger took himself off and Martin shook his head. “And he wonders why he’s single.”

            Madanach snickered.

            The meeting was held the next day and Madanach was seated with the churls on the benches at the back while the principals gathered at the great table surrounding the fire pit. Tullius had brought Elisif and Rikke; Ulfric had Sigdrifa and Galmar. Vilkas was mediating the discussion and Balgruuf was there as a neutral voice.

            What followed was an entertaining hour for Madanach as both sides of the Skyrim civil war traded insults in between haggling like a house spouse on a tight budget. Ulfric said something scornful about Torygg, which led Elisif to use language unbefitting of a High Rock noblewoman that made Ulfric’s son Bjarni laugh despite the glares from his family. Tullius told her to be silent, at which the Jarl of Solitude reminded him she was the Imperial claimant to the High King’s throne and he was there as the military adviser. Sigdrifa added her two septims by pointing out that the Jarl was little more than a girl and not even a true Nord. Rikke retorted by saying she’d taken the woman out to kill an ice wraith as per Nord adulthood rites and had Sigdrifa gotten around to that yet? The Stormsword’s response was enough to make Korli threaten to render her mute again. Again? Damn, Madanach had missed the first time.

            Finally, Martin rose to his feet, his pupils flashing red-green in the firelight like a predator’s. “Every second you insult each other is another second Alduin feasts on the souls of the heroic Nord dead in Sovngarde. Since you cannot agree, I will lay down the bargain: the Imperials will cede the Reach to Ulfric in return for the Rift. Ulfric will pay wergild to the survivors of the Markarth Incident, including all children forcibly taken from their families. The Empire will pay wergild to the survivors of the Bruma Purge, including Korli Wind-of-Kyne and any other Blades initiates. Both of you will not attack Whiterun until Alduin is destroyed. _Do I make myself clear_?”

            Given the last bit was delivered in a voice edged with the thunder of the Thu’um, everyone decided that agreement was the better part of valour.

            Madanach slipped out as the crowd milled around and made his way to the gates. The fun was only getting started. Now his Forsworn would have free rein to reclaim the Reach and the Empire would be in a weakened state to negotiate.

            For once, a Dragonborn had finally done some right by the Reach.


	34. The Fallen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. I’m on a roll, so might as well work on this story to get it done before I go back to uni.

 

“The chains are oiled, the collar has been prepared, and the Companions have been briefed. Are you sure you want to do this?” Balgruuf asked, looking martial in his fine steel plate with the sabre cat loincloth.

            “If you have another way to get the location of Alduin’s portal to Sovngarde, we’d love to hear it,” Martin said wryly.

            “Sadly, I don’t.” Balgruuf took a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”

            The Great Porch had been cleared of everything and now half the Companions, several guards, Ghorbash, Korli, Bjarni and Marius waited in a loose semi-circle around a lighter band of stone. Once Odahviing was over that line, the collar would snap around his throat. If Vilkas’ reflexes were fast enough.

            _If the man’s arm is as quick as his tongue, we will get through this,_ Martin thought as he stepped up to the balcony and took a deep breath.

            “Today, even if this fails, we will go down in history,” Balgruuf announced to the porch. “But we will not fail, for the souls of our heroic dead rely on us. For Whiterun! For Kyne! For Shor!”

            “For Kyne, for Shor,” repeated the crowd.

            “Dragonborn, you may proceed.” Balgruuf stepped to the side.

            “Talos have mercy on us all,” muttered Bjarni, who’d stayed to help catch the dragon.

            “ODAHVIING!”

            For several heart-wrenching minutes, there was no result, and one of the guards stepped out towards the balcony. “Are you sure this worked? I’m seeing no dra-“

            He didn’t see the dragon because the red bolt from the blue sped by, snatching him up with an awful crunch. Something landed on Dragonsreach’s roof, making terrible sounds punctuated with screams for a mercifully brief time.

            Then Odahviing, easily the size of a large cottage, landed on the porch and spat out the guard’s helmet. “You provided me with dinner, Dragonborn? Truly, hospitality worthy of a dovah. I will make your end merciful.”

            Martin grinned. “If you want me, Snow Winged Hunter, come and get me.”

            “Well said!” Odahviing crawled towards Martin as he stepped back. “I thought you were eager to fight me?”

            Martin stepped over the band of pale stone. “I’d rather talk. Just because Alduin’s end is nigh doesn’t mean yours must be.”

            “You are certain-ack!” Odahviing’s words were chopped by the collar that dropped around his neck.

            “I wouldn’t use Fire Breath if I were you,” Martin warned. “I can as easily take the location of Alduin’s portal from absorbing your soul as I could talking to you.”

            “Joor mey! Trapped like a bear in a cage.” Odahviing sighed gustily. “Well played, Maar-Diin.”

            “I had some help,” Martin said ruefully. “Will you speak freely or must we compel you?”

            Odahviing lowered his head. “You went to a great deal of trouble to put me in this... humiliating position.”

            “I did not wish to kill you if I could avoid it,” Martin reminded him. “Where is Alduin hiding?”

            “Rinik vazah. An apt phrase. Alduin bovul. One reason I came to your call was to test your Thu'um for myself. Many of us have begun to question Alduin's lordship, whether his Thu'um was truly the strongest. Among ourselves, of course. Mu ni meyye. None were yet ready to openly defy him.”

            “Where is Alduin?” Korli said quietly, stepping up to stand by Martin.

            “Unslaad krosis. Innumerable pardons. I digress. He has travelled to Sovngarde to regain his strength, devouring the sillesejoor... the souls of the mortal dead. A privilege he jealously guards... His door to Sovngarde is at Skuldalfn, one of his ancient fanes high in in the eastern mountains. Mindoraan, pah ok middovahhe lahvraan til. I surely do not need to warn you that all his remaining strength is marshalled there. Zu'u lost ofan hin laan... now that I have answered your question, you will allow me to go free?”

            The Nords in the crowd gasped as Odahviing confirmed what Martin and Korli had told them.

            “Knowing Alduin, this place can only be reached by wings, yes?” Martin asked softly.

            “You have the Thu'um of a dovah, but without the wings of one, you will never set foot in Skuldafn. Of course... I could fly you there. But not while imprisoned like this.” Odahviing smirked; it was the only way to describe his expression.

            “No,” Korli said firmly. “I can transform myself and my kinsman into hawks.”

            Odahviing shrugged. “Could you get past Nahkriin who stands guard over the portal, Koor-Lah-Noor?”

            “Probably. A Dragon Priest wouldn’t notice a mouse or two.”

            “We seem to be at an impasse, then,” Martin observed.

            “Indeed. Orin brit ro. I cannot leave here until you defeat Alduin, which you cannot do without my help.”

            “I hate to say it but the bastard’s got us over a barrel,” Ghorbash growled. “You’re going to have to trust him, Martin.”

            “Red dragons have a need to serve the worthy,” Korli said. “Odahviing, we have defeated you. If we defeat Alduin, all dovahhe will be free to seek that destiny the gods have for them. If we free you, will you stand aside? Your life already hangs in the balance for the World-Eater rarely forgives failure. He already killed Paarthurnax. Will you take a chance at life or cower here waiting to become Alduin’s dessert to the heroes of Sovngarde?”

            “You will release me if I take you to Skuldalfn and stop helping Alduin?” Odahviing asked hopefully.

            “I swear by Kaan and Shor we will,” Korli assured him.

            “Release him!” Martin ordered Vilkas.

            “Have you lost your mind?” the Harbinger demanded.

            “Do it, man!” Balgruuf snapped.

            “Fine, but I’ll not be stuffing that dragon back into the trap if he turns on you.”

            The collar fell off and Odahviing coughed a little.

            “I may take two – you and an ally,” he told Martin.

            “I can fly,” Korli said.

            “I’m going with you,” Marius said. “We started this journey together a long time ago, Martin, and I intend to finish it with you.”

            Martin bowed his head. “So be it. Ghorbash, if we don’t return, take what belongings I have and divide them between yourself and the Skyguard.”

            “You’ll come back,” Ghorbash assured him. “I don’t fancy telling Aurelia Northstar that you didn’t.”

            Balgruuf frowned. “I don’t understand.”

            Martin smiled wryly. “If I survive, I’ll explain. Otherwise you’d think I was insane.”

            He and Marius mounted back as Korli shimmered blue-green, transforming into one of the sleek hawks of the Jerall Mountains with a band of turquoise feathers on her wings and tail. “Show off,” Martin told her, earning a sarcastic screech in reply.

            “May Kynareth guard you while you pass through her realm!” Balgruuf called as they took off.


	35. The Path to Sovngarde

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

 

Odahviing landed with a jolt; they were somewhere in the Velothi Mountains overlooking the Rift. In the distance, Martin could see the ashen lands of Morrowind. They dismounted, muscles protesting at the movement, and Korli transformed just above the ground to land in a three-point crouch as human.

            “This is as far as I can take you. Krif voth ahkrin. I will look for your return, or Alduin's.”

            The red dragon took to the air and was soon gone.

            Marius licked his lips, a rare sign of nervousness from the Altmer. “I count numerous draugr and three dragons.”

            Korli raised her staff. “I can do something about the dragons but we’ll have to run for the temple and probably have to fight through the hordes of draugr.”

            “Do it,” Martin said.

            Korli took a deep breath and Shouted, “PAAR-THUR-NAX!”

            The ghostly image of the grey dragon appeared in the skies above. He shone with a soft golden lustre as he engaged the three dragons, who made cries of dismay on seeing him there.

            “Let’s go!” Marius barked as they ran up the stairs, Martin and Korli throwing fireballs at any draugr in the way, and made the temple.

            The temple was the standard Nord tomb, complete with grave goods, draugr and frostbite spiders. As they caught their breath near the top, Martin gave Korli a sharp look. “What did you do out there?”

            “Did you ever wonder why Paarthurnax relented to Kaan’s request to teach humanity the Thu’um?” she asked in response.

            “…I never thought about it.” Martin healed some minor wounds of Marius’.

            “Every dragon lives with the knowledge that Alduin would eventually devour them,” she explained, downing a magicka potion with a grimace. “Arkay is the god of mortal death, but dragons aren’t mortal and never were. After Alduin killed his Jill and established himself as ruler of Skyrim, most of the other minute-menders fled and Akatosh was forced to create a mortal with a dragon’s soul. Mir-Aak – the First Dragonborn.”

            “But he was a bloody-handed tyrant so vile that even the other Dragon Priests turned on him,” Marius observed.

            “Indeed. Miraak was… a piece of work. Even most of the other dragons feared him. But he got greedy and made a deal with the Woodland Man – Hermaeus-Mora. Vahlok the Guardian was able to banish him but…” Korli shrugged. “The Three Tongues came along a few years later, maybe even centuries. Near as I can tell, nearly every Dragonborn barring those created by direct intervention from Akatosh is descended from those three. You’re from Hakon One-Eye; I’m from both him and Felldir the Old.”

            “I was once told you could have been Dragonborn,” Martin said carefully. “Why did you refuse?”

            Korli’s expression was pensive. “Because I would have enjoyed the power too much. Hell, I enjoyed using a silencing Shout on my mother, and that isn’t a good thing.”

            “Back to how you were able to summon Paarthurnax,” Marius prompted.

            “Yes. Of course.” Korli looked blindly into the distance. “Without Alduin, dragons will be unable to be resurrected if they die. If we defeat Alduin, Kaan will be able to bind the dragons to the wheel of rebirth and give them mortal lifespans. They’ll still live longer and be more powerful than humans, but they will eventually die. Paarthurnax died a hero, so he’s gone to Sovngarde. As Kaan is the Guide of Souls, I can summon heroes from Sovngarde briefly as allies.”

            “You could have ended the civil war with a few Shouts,” Martin said slowly.

            “So could you,” was her retort.

            He couldn’t argue with that. “We better hurry. Every minute means another soul is lost.”

            They reached the top where a desiccated creature in an ebony mask hovered near a whirlwind of energy. Martin closed his eyes and felt the surge of energy from the two dragons that lay dead near him. One of them knew the Word he’d seen on the Wall on the way up here.

            “STRUN!” he Shouted.

            The world turned into a hellish mass of grey cloud and whirling winds as lightning struck the remaining draugr and the Dragon Priest guarding the portal. Korli’s staff finished off the creature and she retrieved the ebony mask, handing it to Martin as the storm died down.

            “This will enhance your powers as a mage,” she told him. “We’ll need the staff to open the portal. Are you ready?”

            Martin nodded. “I think so.”

            Korli put the staff back in the hole and the world opened up into glory.

…

Marius wasn’t used to being looked down on but the giant Tsun, who topped him by half a head, managed to do it.

            They’d found their way through Alduin’s cursed mists, Martin and Korli clearing the way so that all the remaining souls could be rescued, and came to the massive Shield-Thane of Shor guarding the bridge to the Hall of Valour crafted from His mortal remains.

            “What brings you, wayfarer grim, to wander here, in Sovngarde, souls-end, Shor's gift to honoured dead?” Tsun rumbled.

            “I am Martin Septim, the Last Dragonborn, and I have come to defeat Alduin as was foretold at the beginning of days,” Martin said softly and clearly.

            “A fateful errand. No few have chafed to face the Worm since first he set his soul-snare here at Sovngarde's threshold. But Shor restrained our wrathful onslaught - perhaps, deep counselled, your doom he foresaw.” Tsun set the butt of his battleaxe in the soft soil. “Living or dead, by decree of Shor, none may pass this perilous bridge 'till I judge them worthy by the warrior's test.”

            “Test the souls I rescued first,” Martin ordered. “I would not feed Alduin’s power.”

            “Well said!” What followed was every soul fighting Tsun; once they had struck him, the giant let them through. Finally, only Martin, Korli and Marius remained.

            Marius drew his dai-katana. “It’s been a while since I had a decent opponent. I’ll try not to make your defeat humiliating.”

            “A Krisfahliil with a taste for blade-work!” Tsun said approvingly. “Shor may make the exception to allow you entrance to the Hall of Valour on your death.”

            Marius expected a tough fight. What he got was a mouthful of dirt, several bruises and only the faintest of gashes on Tsun’s bare chest.

            “You may pass,” Tsun said. “Who shall be-?”

            Korli darted forward, drove her foot into Tsun’s groin, and was halfway across the bridge before the guardian could recover.

            “Every time,” Tsun wheezed, “Every time she does that.”

            Martin waited politely for the god to recover. “She’s been here before?”

            “Twice. Both times, it was not her day to die.” Tsun straightened up and lifted his battleaxe. “Forewarned I am, Dragonborn.”

            Martin fared about as well as Marius, landing on his arse with a thud that made the Altmer wince.

            “You may pass,” Tsun decreed.

            “You forgot to test someone else,” announced a hoarse contralto. “Ready to get your arse kicked, Tsun?”

            Aurelia Northstar, the Madgoddess Aspect of Sheogorath, appeared out of the mists.

            “Northstar,” Tsun greeted with some civility. “This is not your realm and Sovngarde is not your place.”

            Aurelia gave that familiar unnerving grin. “This might sound a little crazy but my place is here. I was a Blade. I have been a prime mover in the Prophecy of the Dragonborn. I’m a Nord. This time and place are mine because Alduin needs to be dealt with.”

            Tsun inclined his head. “Very well.”

            Marius had always been better with weapons than hand to hand, but even he knew enough to be impressed by the sheer level of technique displayed by both divine beings. He’d always seen Aurelia as something of a berserker, relying more on her sheer rage and strength rather than skill, but this fight taught him he was wrong. Or maybe it was because she and Tsun were just having fun. Who knew?

            But it ended in a draw, Aurelia dragging Tsun into a headlock while he placed the point of a dagger at her stomach.

            “Well fought!” the god laughed as he was released. “You may pass, Madgoddess.”

            Aurelia smiled. “Thank you.”

            They crossed the Whalebone Bridge and into the open golden doors of Sovngarde.


	36. The Hall of Valour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

“So this is Sovngarde,” remarked one of the soldiers they’d guided through the mists. “It is everything I ever wanted.”

            The souls scattered but for a hearty grey-haired man Martin realised with a start was Kodlak, the old Harbinger. “Well done, Dragonborn,” the warrior said gravely. “When the mists ensnared me, I thought myself lost.”

            “Welcome, Dragonborn! Our hall has stood empty since Alduin first set his soul-snare here. By Shor's command we sheathed our blades and ventured not the vale's dark mist. But three await your word to loose their fury upon the perilous foe. Gormlaith the Fearless, glad-hearted in battle; Hakon the Valiant, heavy-handed warrior; Felldir the Old, far-seeing and grim.”

            The speaker was a man who easily stood seven feet, clad in totemic armour that left his arms and legs bare, with a great helmet crowned with a strange double-protrusion that was like the top of a H. His battleaxe was of ebony and embossed with a screaming mer’s face.

            “Ysgramor,” greeted Korli. “Does Heaven’s Reach Temple still stand?”

            The founder of the Companions gave the woman a startled glance. “Come you here finally to stay?”

            “That remains to be decided. It is the day of days, though perhaps not yet the final reckoning. I have made my peace if it should be my final end.”

            “Heaven’s Reach Temple,” Marius prompted.

            “The home of the Blades? Yes, it stands.” Ysgramor nodded to the west. “Even Alduin’s wrath could not pierce their walls.”

            “I was Grandmaster once. Today, I will be so again.” Marius strode off to the west, taller than most but a few in ancient armour not unlike Ysgramor’s.

            “An Aldmer in Sovngarde,” Ysgramor mused. “Truly, it is the end of days.”

            “He’s more human than not,” Martin said. “His mother was the granddaughter of an Akaviri and his father was Colovian.”

            “Nede from the highlands,” Korli explained to the ancient warrior. “His mother’s father was of the Reman lineage, descended from the Nede who inherited Alessia’s charge and amulet.”

            “A fine lineage for one not Atmorani,” Ysgramor said dismissively. “The Three await. You should not keep them waiting.”

            They moved through the crowd, various Nords and people who managed to rival the Altmer in height greeting them. Aurelia, much to Martin’s surprise, hadn’t spoken since they’d entered Sovngarde. Maybe she was awed.

            “You’re familiar with several people here,” Martin finally remarked to Korli.

            “I died once but was revived just before I entered the gates. The second time, I was on a spirit quest,” she told him. “I will be glad when this is over. I’m sick of my life being interrupted by heroics.”

            “Going to settle down and raise goats with Ghorbash?” Martin asked with a smile.

            “Maybe. In the Reach, I don’t have to choose a side in this damned civil war.” Korli shrugged. “Unless I die here. It’s a strong possibility.”

            “You won’t be pulling a-a me,” Martin said firmly.

            “Alduin is literally the embodiment of Akatosh’s destructive principle,” Korli said serenely. “Kyne’s full power may be needed.”

            “You have a Daedric Prince on your side,” Aurelia said quietly. “I have more power than Kyne.”

            “Only if Shor permits it,” said a strong, slightly weary voice. A tall spare man clad in grey robes, his long silver-and-iron hair braided back from eyes of a pale icy turquoise, emerged from the crowd with two armoured warriors – a golden-haired woman and a dark-haired man – by his side. The dark-haired man’s only eye was as blue as Martin’s own and there was something familiar about the shape of his jaw.

            “If Shor wants to keep his heroes, he’ll let me,” Aurelia said dryly. “If not, I’ll just punch him in his face until he agrees.”

            “I like her,” the woman said to the male warrior.

            “You would,” the old man said over his shoulder. “You have never thought beyond the wetting of your blade, Gormlaith.”

            “What else is there, Felldir?” was her cheerful answer. “We should take the battle to the wyrm now.”

            “Let the Blades arm themselves. Long have their oaths bound them here. Today is the day of reckoning for them,” counselled the man who had to Hakon One-Eye.

            “We’ll need to clear those mists,” Martin said. “Do you know Clear Skies?”

            “Is a Falmer treacherous?” laughed Gormlaith. “Of course we do.”

            “Good.” Martin chose to ignore the comment about the Falmer. “We will then unleash Dragonrend in a volley, so that there’s always someone capable of keeping Alduin grounded able to Shout. Marius and the Blades will be able to flank him while Korli and I can unleash lightning to sap his su’um.”

            “I’ll keep the asshole focused on me,” Aurelia said with a vicious grin. “I beat up Mehrunes Dagon on a regular basis.”

            Marius returned to them, accompanied by Jauffre and Baurus. Martin’s heart leapt to see them, though he realised that there was something… empty about them. They were static, unable to grow or change. He came to understand that all the heroes of Sovngarde, Blade or otherwise, were like this.

            “They’re very weak Aedric spirits,” Korli murmured. “Little gods, I suppose.”

            “The Blades are assembled,” Jauffre said with a salute. “We await your command, Emperor.”

            Martin took a deep breath. “Let us take the battle to Alduin and deal with him until the end of time.”


	37. The Nature of the Divine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and discussion of mental illness. Welp, folks, this is done and dusted. I decided to end it here instead of with an epilogue chapter because it felt right. There may be a sequel, but I got six other stories and an entire semester of university to finish. Thanks for sticking with me.

 

When mortals spoke of madness, they thought of poor sweet Cicero in the Sanctuary with his ramblings or the poor beggar in Riften who was blinded by the colours of the aspen forests or even the cannibal butcher who liked to chow down on people. They epitomised it as the quirky Imperial gentleman dressed in a High Rock frock coat of motley hue or even Aurelia herself, boiling over with a rage she could not control or deny. Such ideas made madness a thing could be uncomfortably lived with. Sometimes they were even right.

            But the Dark Brother who tried to drown his trauma in women and murder or the Nightingale who could only cope with drink or the Sword-Saint obsessing over his mastery of the sword or the Greybeard hiding away from the world or the priestess who worried about her goats because they were the only things to love her unconditionally? They weren’t mad in the world’s eyes. But to the Madgoddess, who loved and knew every one of her descendants, she knew they were all a little mad. You couldn’t subject three or four generations to repeated trauma without planting the seeds of mental illness. She wondered if the Aedra realised that when they set things up.

            Madness was absolute chaos. Madness was absolute order.

            Madness was a Daedric Prince fighting a destructive aspect of Akatosh to save the world so that the man she’d loved could finally have the happy ending he deserved and the great-great-granddaughter who’d been set up to repeat his sacrifice could live and be free of it all.

            As a ragged volley of Dragonrend kept Alduin grounded and the sharp swords of the Blades bit into the World-Eater’s black flesh, Aurelia planted her feet in the soft soil of Sovngarde and used all of her Daedric might to hold the dragon’s attention. Alduin was beyond good and evil, sanity or madness; it would be up to her fists to teach him otherwise. She could appreciate Kynareth’s plan to educate the dragons and find a place for them in a changing world. It didn’t mean she would complete it on the Storm-Goddess’ terms.

            “You cannot defeat me!” Alduin taunted. “I am Alduin. I am the end of all things. I will feast on your soul!”

            Aurelia grinned viciously. “If you’re so hungry, chew on this!”

            She forced a piece of herself, the Jyggalag spark, into Alduin’s gaping maw as Martin’s lightning danced across the beast’s black scales. Behind the dragon, Marius was climbing up his back with dai-katana in hand while Korli’s icy spears shredded his wing-webs.

            “Zu'u unslaad! Zu'u nis oblaan!” Alduin cried.

            “You are not eternal and you will end today!” Martin yelled in a cold harsh tone. “STRUN!”

            As the storm rolled in, blotting out the stars of Sovngarde, Marius rammed his dai-katana through Alduin’s head, Korli called lightning to it… and Aurelia channelled all of her Daedric power into the piece in the dragon’s throat.

            “Read the Elder Scroll now!” she ordered. “Now, Martin!”

            He pulled the Scroll from his back and opened it.

            The world exploded into light of a thousand indescribable shades as Aurelia became something less… and something more.

            The Daedric Prince of Madness was dead. Long live Jyggalag, the Divine of Order.

…

Everyone was flung off their feet by the wave of force that emanated from the exploding Alduin.

            When they struggled to their feet, a creature of sharp angles and silver-edged ebony armour stood over a chained black dragon who whimpered pitifully.

            “I will make certain this one learns his place in the order of things,” they said. “Know me as Jyggalag and know my order lies in the earthbones of Nirn.”

            “Still subject to the ways of the world,” said Korli, her voice touched by the wind’s howl and the hawk’s scream. “For order breeds stagnation and chaos brings forth new things.”

            “So it is agreed, Jyggalag,” Marius said, his voice a hero’s war cry and a king’s command.

            “The dragons have been written as mortal. They will live and die as mortals do, serving as the protectors of time. You will stop all attempts to unwrite the world and unwind the Time-Serpent,” Akatosh spoke through Martin’s lips. “We allowed this for you know the purpose of all things.”

            “Let it be so,” Jyggalag confirmed. “There is enough of the shell I once wore to allow her continued existence in Sovngarde. Will Shor object?”

            “Not if he knows what’s good for him,” Kynareth said in a wife’s tart tone, earning laughter from Talos.

            Jyggalag bowed their head and departed. So did the presence of the other Divines, even the last vestiges of Akatosh that clung to Martin’s soul.

            Now he was no more and no less the man who had laid down his life for Nirn two centuries ago.

            Martin fell to his knees and howled with grief for Aurelia. She was indestructible, she was never meant to die-

            “Oh, for fuck’s sake, will you stop crying?” The hoarse contralto was calmer, though hollower.

            Martin’s eyes flew open in shock to behold Aurelia, clad as the Grand Champion of the Arena, glowing softly like the other heroes of Sovngarde.

            “I was never all of Sheogorath, only the guiding aspect after my adventures in the Shivering Isles,” she said with a faint smile. She looked young and unscarred, her eyes no longer that mad pale green. “Jyggalag couldn’t be allowed to wander Oblivion unsupervised but we needed something to set the earthbones in place after so many of the Towers collapsed. Who better than the Daedric Prince of Order and Logic?”

            “So Daedra can become Aedra?” Marius asked in disbelief.

            “If they want to. Et’Ada, and all that business. Too complicated for me. Well, when the Thalmor worked on their little world destruction project, Kynareth – always the pragmatist – decided to do something about it. The Aedra damn well knew what they were doing when they laid down their power for the earthbones and most of them were pretty pissed the Thalmor were trying to undo that.”

            Behind her, Paarthurnax landed. “I missed the battle?”

            “Sorry, big guy, couldn’t take the chance you’d be eaten by Alduin.” Aurelia grinned at him. “How was the Shivering Isles?”

            “Interesting.” Paarthurnax smiled gently. He was in his prime here, a great silver-grey dragon with a golden aura. “What tales I will have to tell Teyfunvahzah when I am reborn.”

            “I’d’ve sent him there too, but he’d have wound up running the place,” Aurelia laughed.

            Korli had fallen to her knees, her hands shaking. “I was meant to die-“

            “And my family’s done enough damn dying for Nirn,” Aurelia said firmly. “You’re still a priestess of Kyne, your goats are now just goats and you no longer drive the fates of others with your existence. Go home and live for yourself, Korli, and fuck the Divines.”

            “Aurelia,” Marius said softly, “Thank you.”

            “Thank me by making Martin happy.” Aurelia smiled sweetly. “Maybe you can give him a Valenwood-“

            Marius made a strangled noise as Martin burst into laughter. He was free. Finally free.


End file.
